^^^.oMi/^rr^'^U/         / 


MADAME    CHARLES    MOULTON 


Books  by  Madame  L.  de 
HEGERMANN-LINDENCRONE 

IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Illustrated.     Crown  8vo 

THE  SUNNY  SIDE  OF  DIPLOMATIC  LIFE 
Illustrated.     Crown  8vo 

HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT.    1911.    1912.    BY    HARPER   8i    BROTHERS 

PRINTED    IN   THE   UNITED    STATES   OF   AMERICA 
PUBLISHED    OCTOBER.    1912 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


MADAME   CHARLES   MOULTON Frontispiece 

THE   FAY   HOUSE,    CAMBRIDGE,    MASSACHUSETTS Facing  p.       4 

EMPEROR   NAPOLEON   III "  22 

EMPRESS   EUGENIE "  28 

DANIEL   FRANCOIS   ESPRIT   AUBER "  34 

FACSIMILE  OF  LETTER  FROM  THE  DUKE  DE  MORNY "  38 

JENNY  LIND "  86 

THE   MAIN   FACADE — CHATEAU   DE   COMPIEGNE "  96 

SALLE   DES   FETES — CHATEAU   DE   COMPIEGNE "  100 

CHATEAU   DE    PIERREFONDS "  108 

THE   MUSIC   HALL — CHATEAU   DE   COMPIEGNE "  142 

FACSIMILE   OF   LETTER   FROM   JENNY   LIND "  158 

FACSIMILE   OF   LISZT   LETTER Page  1 64 

MERIMEE's   SIGNATURE    AND   ANSWERS    TO  MADAME  MOULTON 's 

QUESTIONS Facing  p.  igZ 

LA  SALLE  DES  PREUX — CHATEAU  DE  PIERREFONDS  ....  "  208 
PRINCE   METTERNICH's    SIGNATURE    AND   ANSWERS  TO  MADAME 

MOULTON's   QUESTIONS "  214 

napoleon's  SIGNATURE  AND  ANSWERS  TO  MADAME  MOULTON's 

QUESTIONS "  222 

EMPRESS  Eugenie's  signature  and  answers  to  madame 

MOULTON's   QUESTIONS "  226 

ELIHU   WASHBURN "  274 

RUE     DE     RIVOLI,     WHERE     THE     HOTEL     CONTINENTAL     NOW 

STANDS "  276 

iii 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

RAOUL   RIGAULT Facing  p.  294 

FACSIMILE  OF  PASSPORT  ISSUED  TO  MADAME  MOULTON  DURING 

THE   COMMUNE  "         3OO 

FACSIMILE   OF   THE   GOVERNMENT   PERMIT   TO   KEEP   COWS    .      .        "         322 
PLACE   VENDOME   AFTER   THE   FALL   OF   THE   COLUMN        ...        "         328 

FACSIMILE   OF   TICKET   TO    PLACE   VENDOME Page      329 

FACSIMILE      OF      ENVELOPE      ADDRESSED     BY     THE     EMPRESS 

EUGENIE   TO   PRINCE   METTERNICH "       383 

GIUSEPPE   GARIBALDI Facvig  p,  430 


PREFACE 

These  letters,  written  by  me  in  my  younger  days  to 
a  dear  and  indulgent  mother  and  aunt,  were  returned 
to  me  after  their  death.  In  writing  them  I  allowed 
myself  to  go  into  the  smallest  details,  even  the  most 
insignificant  ones,  as  I  was  sure  that  they  would  be  wel- 
come and  appreciated  by  those  to  whom  they  were 
addressed.  They  were  certainly  not  intended  to  be 
made  public. 

If  I  have  decided,  after  much  hesitation,  to  publish 
these  letters,  it  is  because  many  of  my  friends,  having 
read  them,  have  urged  me  to  do  so,  thinking  that  they 
might  be  of  interest,  inasmuch  as  they  refer  to  some 
important  events  of  the  past,  and  especially  to  people 
of  the  musical  world  whose  names  and  renown  are  not 
yet  forgotten. 

LiLLIE   DE   HeGERMANN-LiNDENCRONE. 
Berlin,  July,  1Q12. 


NOTE 

Madame  de  Hegermann-Lindencrone,  the  writer  of 
these  letters,  which  give  so  vivid  a  picture  of  the  brilliant 
court  of  the  last  Napoleon,  is  the  wife  of  the  present 
Danish  Minister  to  Germany.  She  was  formerly  Miss 
Lillie  Greenough,  of  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  where 
she  lived  with  her  grandfather.  Judge  Fay,  in  the  fine  old 
Fay  mansion,  now  the  property  of  Radcliffe  College. 

As  a  child  Miss  Greenough  developed  the  remarkable 
voice  which  later  was  to  make  her  well  known,  and 
when  only  fifteen  years  of  age  her  mother  took  her  to 
London  to  study  under  Garcia.  Two  years  later  Miss 
Greenough  became  the  wife  of  Charles  Moulton,  the 
son  of  a  well-known  American  banker,  who  had  been 
a  resident  in  Paris  since  the  days  of  Louis  Philippe.  As 
Madame  Charles  Moulton,  the  charming  American  be- 
came an  appreciated  guest  at  the  court  of  Napoleon  III. 
The  Paris  papers  of  the  days  of  the  Second  Empire  are 
filled  with  the  praises  of  her  personal  attractions  and 
exquisite  singing. 

After  nine  years  of  gaiety  in  the  gayest  city  in  the 
world  came  the  war  of  1870  and  the  Commune.  Upon 
the  fall  of  the  Empire,  Mrs.  Moulton  returned  to 
America,  where  Mr.  Moulton  died,  and  a  few  years  after- 
ward she  married  M.  de  Hegermann-Lindencrone,  at 
that  time  Danish  Minister  to  the  United  States,  and  later 

vii 


NOTE 

successively  his  country's  representative  at  Stockholm, 
Rome,  and  Paris. 

Few  persons  of  her  day  have  known  so  many  of  those 
whom  the  world  has  counted  great.  Among  her  friends 
have  been  not  only  the  ruling  monarchs  of  several 
countries,  and  the  most  distinguished  men  and  women 
of  their  courts,  but  almost  all  the  really  important 
figures  in  the  world  of  music  of  the  past  half-century, 
among  them  Wagner,  Liszt,  Auber,  Gounod,  and  Rossini. 
And  of  many  of  these  great  men  the  letters  give  us 
glimpses  of  the  most  fascinatingly  intimate  sort. 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF 
MEMORY 


Cambridge,  1856. 

Dear  M., — You  say  in  your  last  letter,  "Do  tell 
me  something  about  your  school."  If  I  only  had  the 
time,  I  could  write  volumes  about  my  school,  and  es- 
pecially about  my  teachers. 

To  begin  with,  Professor  Agassiz  gives  us  lectures  on 
zoology,  geology,  and  all  other  ologies,  and  draws  pic- 
tures on  the  blackboard  of  trilobites  and  different 
fossils,  which  is  very  amusing.  We  call  him  "Father 
Nature,"  and  we  all  adore  him  and  try  to  imitate  his 
funny  Swiss  accent. 

Professor  Pierce,  who  is,  you  know,  the  greatest 
mathematician  in  the  world,  teaches  us  mathematics  and 
has  an  awful  time  of  it ;  we  must  be  very  stupid,  for  the 
more  he  explains,  the  less  we  seem  to  understand,  and 
when  he  gets  on  the  rule  of  three  we  almost  faint  from 
dizziness.  If  he  would  only  explain  the  rule  of  one! 
The  Harvard  students  say  that  his  book  on  mathematics 
is  so  intricate  that  not  one  of  them  can  solve  the  problems. 

We  learn  history  and  mythology  from  Professor 
Felton,  who  is  very  near-sighted,  wears  broad-brimmed 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

spectacles,  and  shakes  his  curly  locks  at  us  when  he 
thinks  we  are  frivolous.  He  was  rather  nonplussed 
the  other  day,  when  Louise  Child  read  out  loud  in  the 
mythology  lesson  something  about  "Jupiter  and  ten," 
"What,"  cried  Mr.  Felton,  "what  are  you  reading? 
You  mean  'Jupiter  and  lo,'  don't  you?"  "It  says  ten 
here,"  she  answered. 

Young  Mr.  Agassiz  teaches  us  German  and  French; 
we  read  Balzac's  Les  Chouans  and  Schiller's  Wallen- 
stein. 

Our  Italian  teacher,  Luigi  Monti,  is  a  refugee  from 
Italy,  and  has  a  sad  and  mysterious  look  in  his  black 
eyes;  he  can  hardly  speak  English,  so  we  have  things 
pretty  much  our  own  way  during  the  lessons,  for  he 
cannot  correct  us.  One  of  the  girls,  translating  ca- 
pelli  fieri,  said  "black  hats,"  and  he  never  saw  the 
mistake,  though  we  were  all  dying  of  laughter. 

No  one  takes  lessons  in  Greek  from  long-bearded, 
fierce-eyed  Professor  Evangelinus  Apostolides  Sophocles, 
so  he  is  left  in  peace.  He  does  not  come  more  than 
once  a  week  anyway,  and  then  only  to  say  it  is  no  use 
his  coming  at  all. 

Cousin  James  Lowell  replaces  Mr.  Longfellow  the 
days  he  can't  come.  He  reads  selections  of  "literary 
treasures,"  as  he  calls  them,  and  on  which  he  discourses 
at  length.  He  seems  very  dull  and  solemn  when  he  is 
in  school;  not  at  all  as  he  is  at  home.  When  he  comes 
in  of  an  afternoon  and  reads  his  poems  to  aunty  and  to 
an  admiring  circle  of  cousins  and  sisters-in-law,  they 
all  roar  with  laughter,  particularly  when  he  reads  them 
with  a  Yankee  accent.  He  has  such  a  rippling  little 
giggle  while  reading,  that  it  is  impossible  not  to  laugh. 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  other  day  he  said  to  me,  "Cousin  Lillie,  I  will 
take  you  out  for  a  walk  in  recess."  I  said,  "Nothing 
I  should  like  better,  but  I  can't  go."  "Why  not?" 
said  he.  "Because  I  must  go  and  be  a  beggar."  "What 
do  you  mean?"  he  asked.  "I  mean  that  there  is  a 
duet  that  Mrs.  Agassiz  favors  just  now,  from  Meyer- 
beer's 'Le  Prophete,'  where  she  is  beggar  number  one 
and  I  am  beggar  number  two."  He  laughed.  "You 
are  a  lucky  little  beggar,  anyway,  I  envy  you."  "Envy 
me?  I  thought  you  would  pity  me,"  I  said.  "No,  I 
do  not  pity  you,  I  envy  you  being  a  beggar  with  a 
voice!" 

I  consider  myself  a  victim.  In  recess,  when  the  other 
girls  walk  in  Quincy  Street  and  eat  their  apples,  Mrs. 
Agassiz  lures  me  into  the  parlor  and  makes  me  sing 
duets  with  her  and  her  sister.  Miss  Carey.  I  hear  the 
girls  filing  out  of  the  door,  while  I  am  caged  behind  the 
piano,  singing,  "Hear  Me,  Norma,"  wishing  Norma  and 
her  twins  in  Jericho. 

There  are  about  fourteen  pupils  now;  we  go  every 
morning  at  nine  o'clock  and  stay  till  two  o'clock.  We 
climb  up  the  three  stories  in  the  Agassiz  house  and  wait  for 
our  teachers,  who  never  are  on  time.  Sometimes  school 
does  not  begin  for  half  an  hour. 

Mrs.  Agassiz  comes  in,  and  we  all  get  up  to  say  good 
morning  to  her.  As  there  is  nothing  else  left  for  her  to 
teach,  she  teaches  us  manners.  She  looks  us  over,  and 
holds  up  a  warning  finger  smilingly.  She  is  so  sweet 
and  gentle. 

I  don't  wonder  that  you  think  it  extraordinary  that 
all  these  fine  teachers,  who  are  the  best  in  Harvard 
College,  should  teach  us;  but  the  reason  is,  that  the 

3 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Agassiz's  have  built  a  new  house  and  find  it  difficult 
to  pay  for  it,  so  their  friends  have  promised  to  help 
them  to  start  this  school,  and  by  lending  their  names 
they  have  put  it  on  its  legs,  so  to  speak. 

The  other  day  I  was  awfully  mortified.  Mr.  Long- 
fellow, who  teaches  us  literature,  explained  all  about 
rhythm,  measures,  and  the  feet  used  in  poetry.  The 
idea  of  poetry  having  feet  seemed  so  ridiculous  that  I 
thought  out  a  beautiful  joke,  which  I  expected  would 
amuse  the  school  immensely;  so  when  he  said  to  me 
in  the  lesson,  "Miss  Greenough,  can  you  tell  me  what 
blank  verse  is?"  I  answered  promptly  and  boldly, 
' '  Blank  verse  is  like  a  blank-book ;  there  is  nothing  in  it, 
not  even  feet,"  and  looked  around  for  admiration,  but 
only  saw  disapproval  written  everywhere,  and  Mr. 
Longfellow,  looking  very  grave,  passed  on  to  the  next 
girl.     I  never  felt  so  ashamed  in  my  life. 

Mr.  Longfellow,  on  passing  our  house,  told  aunty 
that  he  was  coming  in  the  afternoon,  to  speak  to 
me;  aunty  was  worried  and  so  was  I,  but  when  he 
came  I  happened  to  be  singing  Schubert's  "Dein  ist 
mein  Herz,"  one  of  aunty's  songs,  and  he  said,  "Go 
on.  Please  don't  stop."  When  I  had  finished  he 
said: 

' '  I  came  to  scold  you  for  your  flippancy  this  morning, 
but  you  have  only  to  sing  to  take  the  words  out  of  my 
mouth,  and  to  be  forgiven." 

"And  I  hope  you  will  forget,"  I  said,  penitently. 
,  "I  have  already  forgotten,"  he  answered,  affectionate- 
ly.    "How  can  one  be  angry  with  a  dear  little  bird? 
But  don't  try  again  to  be  so  witty." 

"Never  again,  I  promise  you." 

4 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"That's  the  dear  girl  you  are,  and  'Dein  ist  mein 
Herz'!"     He  stooped  down  and  kissed  me. 

I  burst  into  tears,  and  kissed  his  hand.  This  is  to 
show  you  what  a  dear,  kind  man  Mr.  Longfellow  is. 


Cambridge,  Jtme,  iS^y.  ■ 

If  you  were  here,  dear  mama,  I  would  sing,  "Oh, 
Wake  and  Call  Me  Early,  Call  Me  Early,  Mother  Dear," 
for  I  am  to  dance  the  quadrille  on  the  "Green"  on  Class 
Day.  To  be  asked  by  a  Harvard  graduate  to  be  one 
of  the  four  girls  to  dance  is  a  great  compliment.  All 
the  college  windows  are  full  of  people  gazing  at  you, 
and  just  think  of  the  other  girls,  who  are  filled  with 
envy  fuller  than  the  windows! 

Aunty  is  "pestered  "  (as  she  calls  it)  to  death  by  people 
wanting  me  to  sing  for  their  charities.  Every  one  has 
a  pet  charity,  which  it  seems  must  be  attended  to  just 
at  this  time,  and  they  clamor  for  help  from  me,  and 
aunty  has  not  the  courage  to  say  "no."  Therefore,  about 
once  a  week  I  am  dressed  in  the  white  muslin  and  the 
black  shoes,  which  is  my  gala  get-up,  and  a  carriage 
is  sent  for  me.  Then  aunty  and  I  are  driven  to  the 
Concert  Hall,  where,  when  my  turn  comes,  I  go  on  the 
platform  and  sing,  "Casta  Diva,"  "Ah,  non  Credea," 
etc.,  and  if  I  am  encored  then  I  sing,  "Coming  Thro' 
the  Rye." 

I  am  sure  every  one  says  that  it  is  a  shame  to  make 
me  sing,  but  they  make  me  vsing,  all  the  same.  I  enjoy 
the  applause  and  the  excitement — who  would  not? 
What  I  do  not  enjoy  is  being  obliged  to  sing  in  church 
every   Sunday.     Dr.   Hoppin   has  persuaded  aunty  to 

2  S 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

let  me  help  in  the  choir;  that  is,  to  sing  the  Anthem  and 
the  "Te  Deum,"  but  it  amounts  to  my  doing  about  all 
the  singing.  Don't  you  think  this  is  cruel?  However, 
there  is  one  hymn  I  love  to  sing,  and  that  is,  "Shout 
the  Glad  Tidings,  Exultingly  Sing."  I  put  my  whole 
heart  and  soul  in  this,  and  soon  find  myself  shouting 
the  "glad  tidings"  all  alone,  my  companions  having 
left  me  in  the  lurch. 

We  laughed  very  much  at  aunty's  efforts  in  the  Anti- 
slavery  movement  (just  now  at  its  height),  when  all 
Massachusetts  has  risen  up  with  a  bound  in  order  to 
prove  that  the  blacks  are  as  good  as  the  whites  (if 
not  better),  and  should  have  all  their  privileges.  She, 
wishing  to  demonstrate  this  point,  introduced  Joshua 
Green,  a  little  colored  boy  (the  washerwoman's  son),  into 
the  Sunday-school  class.  The  general  indignation  among 
the  white  boys  did  not  dismay  her,  as  she  hoped  that 
Joshua  would  come  up  to  the  mark.  The  answer  to 
the  first  question  in  the  catechism  (what  is  your  name  ?) , 
he  knew,  and  answered  boldly,  "Joshua  Green."  But 
the  second  question,  "Who  made  you?"  was  the  stum- 
bling-block. He  sometimes  answered,  "Father,"  and 
sometimes,  "Mother."  Aunty,  being  afraid  that  he 
would  answer,  "Miss  Fay,"  had  him  come  to  the  house 
during  the  week,  where  she  could  din  into  him  that  it 
was  God  who  made  him  and  all  creation.  "Now, 
Joshua,  when  Dr.  Hoppin  says  to  you,  'Who  made  you?' 
you  must  answer,  'God,  who  made  everything  on  earth 
and  in  heaven' — you  understand?"  "Yes,  ma'am,"  and 
repeated  the  phrase  until  aunty  thought  him  ripe  to 
appear  at  Sunday-school,  which  he  did  on  the  following 
Sunday.     You     may     imagine    aunty's    consternation 

6 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

when  Dr.  Hoppin  asked  Joshua,  "Who  made  you?"  and 
Joshua  looked  at  aunty  with  a  broad  grin,  showing  all 
his  teeth,  and  said,  "Lor',  Miss  Fay,  I  forget  who  you 
said  it  was."  This  was  aunty's  last  effort  to  teach 
the  blacks.  She  repeated  this  episode  to  Mr.  Phillips 
Brooks,  who,  in  return,  told  her  an  amusing  story  of 
a  colored  man  who  had  been  converted  to  the  Catholic 
religion,  and  went  one  day  to  confession  (he  seems  not 
to  have  been  very  sure  about  this  function).  The 
priest  said  to  him,  "Israel,  what  have  you  to  confess? 
Have  you  been  perfectly  honest  since  the  last  time? 
No  thefts?" 

"No,   sir." 

"None  at  all?     Stolen  no  chickens?" 

"No,  sir." 

"No  watermelons?" 

"No,  sir." 

"No  eggs?" 

"No,   sir." 

"No  turkeys?" 

"No,  sir;  not  one." 

Then  the  priest  gave  absolution.  Outside  the  church 
Israel  found  the  companions  whom  he  had  left  waiting 
for  him. 

"Well,  how  did  you  get  on?"  they  asked, 

"Bully!"  answered  Israel.  "But  if  he'd  said  ducks 
he'd  have  got  me." 

Cousin  James  Lowell  said:  "See  how  a  negro  appre- 
ciates the  advantages  of  the  confession." 

Dear  L., — A  family  council  was  held  yesterday, 
and  it  is  now  quite  decided  that  mama  is  to  take  me 

7 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

to  Europe,  and  that  I  shall  study  singing  with  the 
best  masters.  We  will  first  go  to  New  York  for  a  visit 
of  ten  days  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cooley.  I  shall  see 
New  York  and  hear  a  little  music;  and  then  we  start 
for  Europe  on  the  17th  in  the  Commodore  Vanderbilt. 


New  York. 

Dear  Aunt, — We  have  now  been  here  a  week,  and 
I  feel  ashamed  that  I  have  not  written  to  you  before, 
but  I  have  been  doing  a  great  deal.  The  Cooleys  have 
a  gorgeous  house  in  Fifth  Avenue,  furnished  with  every 
luxury  one  can  imagine.  The  sitting-room,  dining- 
room,  library,  and  a  conservatory  next  to  the  billiard- 
room,  are  down-stairs;  up-stairs  are  the  drawing-rooms 
(first,  second,  and  third),  which  open  into  a  marble- 
floored  Pompeian  room,  with  a  fountain.  Then  comes 
mama's  and  my  bed-room,  with  bath-room  attached. 
On  the  third  floor  the  family  have  their  apartment. 
We  have  been  many  times  to  the  opera,  and  heard  an 
Italian  tenor,  called  Brignoli,  whom  people  are  crazy 
over.  He  has  a  lovely  voice  and  sings  in  "Trovatore." 
Last  night,  when  he  sang  "Di  quella  pira, "  people's 
enthusiasm  knew  no  bounds.  They  stood  up  and 
shouted,  and  ladies  waved  their  handkerchiefs;  he  had 
to  repeat  it  three  times,  and  each  time  people  got 
wilder.  Nina  and  I  clapped  till  our  gloves  were  in 
pieces  and  our  arms  actually  ached. 

A  Frenchman  by  the  name  of  Musard  has  brought 
over  a  French  orchestra,  and  is  playing  French  music 
at  the  opera-house.  People  are  wild  over  him  also. 
Madame  La  Grange,  who  they  say  is  a  fine  lady  in  her 

8 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

own  country,  is  singing  in  "The  Huguenots."  She  has 
rather  a  thin  voice,  but  vocalizes  beautifully.  Nina  and  I 
weep  over  the  hard  fate  of  Valentine,  who  has  to  be 
present  when  her  husband  is  conspiring  against  the 
Huguenots,  knowing  that  her  lover  is  listening  behind 
the  curtain  and  can't  get  away.  The  priests  come  in 
and  bless  the  conspiracy,  all  the  conspirators  holding 
their  swords  forward  to  be  blessed.  This  music  is  really 
too  splendid  for  words,  and  we  enjoy  it  intensely. 

Mr.  Bancroft,  the  celebrated  historian,  invited  us  to 
dinner,  and  after  dinner  they  asked  me  to  sing.  I  had 
to  accompany  myself.  Every  one  pretended  that  they 
were  enchanted.  Just  for  fun,  at  the  end  I  sang,  "Three 
Little  Kittens  Took  Off  Their  Mittens,  to  Eat  a  Christ- 
mas Pie,"  and  one  lady  (would  you  believe  it?)  said 
she  wept  tears  of  joy,  and  had  cold  shivers  down  her 
back.  When  I  sang,  "For  We  Have  Found  Our  Mit- 
tens," there  was,  she  said,  such  a  jubilant  ring  in  my 
voice  that  her  heart  leaped  for  joy. 

Mr.  Bancroft  sent  me  the  next  day  a  volume  of 
Bryant's  poems,  with  the  dedication,  "To  Miss  Lillie 
Greenough,  in  souvenir  of  a  never  -  forgetable  even- 
ing." I  made  so  many  acquaintances,  and  received 
so  many  invitations,  that  if  we  should  stay  much 
longer  here  there  would  be  nothing  left  of  me  to  take 
to  Europe. 

I  will  write  as  soon  as  we  arrive  on  the  other  side. 
On  whatever  side  I  am,  I  am  always  your  loving  niece, 
who  thinks  that  there  is  no  one  in  the  wide  world  to 
compare  to  you,  that  no  one  is  as  clever  as  you,  that  no 
one  can  sing  like  you,  and  that  there  never  was  any  one 
who  can  hold  a  candle  to  you.    There! 

9 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Bremen,  August,  i8jq. 

Dear  Aunt, — At  last  we  have  arrived  at  our  journey's 
end,  and  we  are  happy  to  have  got  out  of  and  away 
from  the  steamer,  where  we  have  been  cooped  up  for 
the  last  weeks.  However,  we  had  a  very  gay  time 
during  those  weeks,  and  some  very  sprightly  com- 
panions. Among  them  a  runaway  couple;  he  was  a 
Mr.  Aulick  Palmer,  but  I  don't  know  who  she  was. 
One  could  have  learned  it  easily  enough  for  the  asking, 
as  they  were  delighted  to  talk  about  themselves  and 
their  elopement,  and  how  they  did  it.  It  was  their 
favorite  topic  of  conversation.  I  was  intensely  inter- 
ested in  them;  I  had  never  been  so  near  a  romance  in 
my  life.  They  had  been  married  one  hour  when  they 
came  on  board;  she  told  her  parents  that  she  was  going 
out  shopping,  and  then,  after  the  marriage,  wrote  a 
note  to  them  to  say  that  she  was  married  and  off  to 
Europe,  adding  that  she  was  not  sorry  for  what  she  had 
done.  He  is  a  handsome  man,  tall  and  dark;  she  is 
a  jolly,  buxom  blonde,  with  a  charming  smile  which 
shows  all  her  thirty  and  something  teeth,  and  makes 
her  red,  thick  lips  uncurl.  I  thought,  for  such  a  newly 
married  couple,  they  were  not  at  all  sentimental,  which 
I  should  have  supposed  natural.  She  became  sea-sick 
directly,  and  he  called  attention  to  her  as  she  lay 
stretched  out  on  a  bench  looking  dreadfully  green  in 
the  face:  "We  are  a  sick  couple — home-sick,  love-sick, 
and  sea-sick." 

The  captain,  who  thought  himself  a  wag  but  who 
forgot  every  morning  what  he  had  wagged  about  the 
day  before,  would  say  for  his  daily  greeting,  "Wie  [as 

lO 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    iM  EMORY 

the  Germans  say]  befinden  sie  sich?"  He  thought  the 
pun  on  sea-sick  was  awfully  funny,  and  would  laugh 
uproariously.  He  said  to  Mr.  Palmer,  "Why  are  you 
not  like  a  melon?"  We  all  guessed.  One  person  said, 
"Because  he  was  not  meloncholic  [Aulick],"  But  all 
the  guesses  were  wrong.  "No,"  said  the  captain,  "it 
is  because  the  melon  can't  elope,  and  you  can."  He 
thought  himself  very  funny,  and  was  rather  put  out 
that  we  did  not  think  him  so,  and  went  on  repeating  the 
joke  to  every  one  on  the  boat  ad  nauseam. 


London,  iS^g. 

Dearest  A., — We  arrived  here,  as  we  intended,  on 
the  27th.  .  .  .  We  easily  found  Garcia's  address,  and 
drove  there  without  delay.  I  was  very  anxious  to  see 
the  "greatest  singing  master  in  the  world,"  and  there 
he  was  standing  before  me,  looking  very  much  as  I  had 
imagined  him;  but  not  like  any  one  I  had  ever  seen 
before.  He  has  grayish  hair  and  a  black  mustache,  ex- 
pressive big  eyes,  and  such  a  fascinating  smile!  Mama 
said,  having  heard  of  his  great  reputation,  she  wished 
that  he  would  consent  to  give  me  a  few  lessons.  He 
smiled,  and  answered  that,  if  I  would  kindly  sing  some- 
thing for  him,  he  could  better  judge  how  much  teaching 
I  required.  I  replied — I  was  so  sure  of  myself — that, 
if  he  would  accompany  "Qui  la  voce,"  I  would  sing 
that.  "Ha,  ha!"  he  cried,  with  a  certain  sarcasm.  "By 
all  means  let  us  have  that,"  and  sat  down  before  the 
piano  while  I  spread  out  the  music  before  him.  I  sang, 
and  thought  I  sang  very  well ;  but  he  just  looked  up  into 
my  face  with  a  very  quizzical  expression,  and  said, '  *  How 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

long  have  you  been  singing,  Mademoiselle?"  Mama 
answered  for  me  before  I  could  speak,  "She  has  sung, 
Monsieur,  since  she  was  a  very  small  child." 

He  was  not  at  all  impressed  by  this,  but  said,  *T 
thought  so."  Then  he  continued,  "You  say  you  would 
like  to  take  some  lessons  of  me?"  I  was  becoming  very 
humble,  and  said,  meekly,  that  I  hoped  he  would  give 
me  some.  "Well,  Mademoiselle,  you  have  a  very 
wonderful  voice,  but  you  have  not  the  remotest  idea 
how  to  sing."  What  a  come-down!  I,  who  thought 
I  had  only  to  open  my  mouth  to  be  admired,  and  only 
needed  a  few  finishing  touches  to  make  me  perfect, 
to  be  told  that  I  had  "not  the  remotest  idea  how  to 
sing"! 

Mama  and  I  both  gasped  for  breath,  and  I  could 
have  cried  for  disappointment  as  well  as  mortification. 
However,  I  felt  he  was  right,  and,  strange  to  say,  mama 
felt  so  too.  He  said,  "Take  six  months'  rest  and  don't 
sing  a  single  note,  then  come  back  to  me."  When  he 
saw  the  crestfallen  look  on  my  face,  he  added,  kindly, 
"Then  we  shall  see  something  wonderful." 

We  leave  for  Dresden  this  evening.  .  .  .  Love  to  all. 

Your  humble 

LiLLIE. 


London,  May,  i860. 

Dear  A., — I  have  not  written  since  we  left  the  kind 
V.  Rensselaers  in  Dresden.  Mama  must  have  given 
you  all  the  details  of  our  life  there.  ...  I  hope,  now  that 
I  have  studied  French,  German,  and  Italian  like  a  good 
little  girl  for  six  months  and  not  "sung  a  single  note," 

12 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

that  I  may  venture  to  present  myself  before  the  great 
Garcia  again. 

I  can't  imagine  that  I  am  the  same  person  who  has 
(it  seems  to  me  years  ago)  sung  before  large,  distin- 
guished, and  enthusiastic  audiences,  has  been  a  little 
belle,  in  a  way,  in  Cambridge,  has  had  serenades  from 
the  Harvard  Glee  Club  (poor  aunty!  routed  out  of 
your  sleep  in  the  middle  of  the  night  to  listen  to  them), 
inspired  poetry,  and  danced  on  "the  Green"  on  Class 
Day.  I  felt  as  if  I  ought  to  put  on  pantalettes  and  wear 
my  hair  down  my  back.  I  look  now  upon  myself  as  a 
real  Backfisch,  as  the  Germans  call  very  young  girls, 
and  that  is  simply  what  I  am;  and  I  feel  that  I  ought 
never  to  have  been  allowed  to  sport  about  in  those 
fascinating  clear  waters  which  reflected  no  shadows,  now 
that  I  must  go  back  to  the  millpond  and  learn  to  swim. 

I  have  been  already  three  weeks  studying  hard  w4th 
Garcia,  who  is  not  only  a  wonderful  teacher,  but  is  a 
wonderful  personality.  I  simply  worship  him,  though 
he  is  very  severe  and  pulls  me  up  directly  I  "slipshod," 
as  he  calls  it;  and  so  far  I  have  literally  sung  nothing 
but  scales.  He  says  that  a  scale  must  be  like  a  beauti- 
ful row  of  pearls:  each  note  like  a  pearl,  perfect  in 
roundness  and  color. 

This  is  so  easy  to  say,  but  very  difficult  to  accomplish. 
Stone-breaking  on  the  highroad  is  nothing  to  it.  I 
come  home  tired  out  from  my  lessons,  only  to  begin 
singing  scales  again.  I  tell  mama  I  feel  like  a  fish 
with  the  scales  being  taken  off  him. 

Four  hours  by  myself  and  two  lessons  a  week  will 
soon  reduce  your  poor  niece  to  a  scaleton.  Ah!  please 
forgive  this.  .  .  . 

13 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

No  question  of  a  song  yet.  "Qui  la  voce"  seems  'way 
back  in  the  Middle  Ages.  Garcia  says,  'Tf,  when  your 
voice  is  well  oiled  [that  is  what  he  calls  the  scaling 
process],  you  are  not  intelligent  enough  to  sing  a  song 
by  yourself,  then  you  had  better  knit  stockings  for  the 
poor." 

"Then,"  I  answered,  "I  had  better  begin  at  once  to 
learn  to  knit  stockings." 

"Not  quite  yet,"  he  laughed.  "Wait  till  I  have 
finished  with  you."  More  than  once  he  has  said, 
"Your  voice  reminds  me  of  my  sister  Marie's  [meaning 
Malibran];  but  she  had  no  brains  to  speak  of,  whereas 
you  have,  and  you  ought  to  be  thankful  for  it." 

I  murmured  that  I  was  glad  he  thought  so,  and,  if  I 
really  had  some  brains,  I  should  be  thankful;  but  I  was 
not  quite  sure  that  I  had.  "Trust  me  to  tell  you  if  you 
have  not,"  said  he. 

I  trusted  him,  indeed,  for  I  knew  very  well  that  he 
would  not  let  the  occasion  slip  had  he  anything  of  that 
sort  to  say. 

London,  July,  i860. 

Dear  A., — Still  hard  at  work.  I  wonder  at  mama's 
patience  and  endurance.  To  hear  scales,  cadenzas,  and 
trills  from  morning  till  night  must  be  terribly  wearing 
on  the  nerves.  I  said  as  much  to  the  master,  and  he 
consented  to  give  me  "Bel  raggio,"  of  "Semiramide. " 
It  is  as  good  as  an  exercise,  anyway,  because  it  is  noth- 
ing but  cadenzas.  Then  he  allowed  me  to  sing  "Una 
voce  poco  fa."  I  told  him  that  mama  had  put  on  a 
pound  of  flesh  since  I  was  permitted  to  roam  in  these 
fresh  pastures.     This  made  him  laugh.     After  he  had 

14 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

seen  that  I  had  "brains  enough"  to  sing  these  songs 
according  to  his  august  liking,  he  said,  "Now  we  will 
try  'Voi  che  sapete,'  of  Mozart." 

Garcia  has  not  the  ghost  of  a  voice;  but  he  has  the 
most  enchanting  way  of  singing  mezzo-voce,  and  oc- 
casionally says,  "Sing  this  so,"  and  sings  the  phrase  for 
me.  It  sounds  delightfully  when  he  does  it;  but  I  do 
not  think  he  would  have  liked  me  to  "sing  it  so,"  and 
would  probably  swear  a  gentle  little  Spanish  swear 
under  his  garlicky  breath,  because  (I  say  it,  though  I 
hate  to)  the  dear  master  eats  garlic — pounds  of  it,  I 
fear — and  his  voice  is  highly  scented  when  it  cracks, 
which  it  often  does. 

He  once  said,  "You  may  imitate  my  way  of  singing, 
but  don't  imitate  my  crack." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I  love  to  hear  you  sing.  I  don't  even 
hear  the  crack." 

"Ah,"  he  sighed,  "if  it  had  not  been  for  that  crack 
I  should  be  in  the  opera  now." 

"I  am  glad,"  I  answered,  "that  you  are  not  there; 
for  then  you  would  not  be  here,  teaching  me."  I  think 
this  pleased  him. 

Sometimes  he  is  very  nervous.  Once,  when  I  was 
singing  "Voi  che  sapete,"  the  tears  rolled  down  his 
cheeks,  and  another  time,  when  he  was  showing  me 
how  to  sing  it  "so,"  I  burst  into  tears,  and  the  poor 
man  had  to  order  his  servant  to  bring  me  some  sherry 
to  restore  my  nerves.  There  is  one  phrase  in  this  song 
which  I  never  can  hear  sung,  or  never  can  sing  myself, 
without  emotion. 

The  season  is  getting  so  late  mama  thinks  we 
ought  to  leave  London,  especially  as  Garcia  is  taking 

15 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

his  vacation;  and  we  are  going  in  a  few  days  to 
Paris. 

Garcia  has  given  us  a  letter  to  his  sister,  Madame 
Viardot  (of  whom  he  said  she  had  brains  but  no  voice). 
He  wrote:  "I  send  you  my  pupil.  Do  all  you  can  to 
persuade  her  to  go  on  the  stage.     She  has  it  in  her." 

But  Madame  Viardot  may  ' '  do  all  she  can  " ;  I  will 
never  go  on  the  stage. 

If  "it"  is  in  me,  it  must  work  out  some  other  way. 

Paris,  May,  1861. 

Dear  A., — Mother  will  have  written  to  you  of  my 
engagement  to  Charles  Moulton.  I  wish  you  would 
come  and  see  me  married,  and  that  I  could  present  all 
my  future  family  to  the  most  lovable  of  aunts. 

I  think  I  shall  have  everything  to  make  me  happy. 
In  the  first  place,  my  fiance  is  very  musical,  composes 
charming  things,  and  plays  delightfully  on  the  piano; 
my  future  mother-in-law  is  a  dear  old  lady,  musical  and 
universally  talented;  my  future  father-in-law  is  a  hona- 
fide  American,  a  dear  quixotic  old  gentleman  who  speaks 
the  most  awful  French.  Although  he  has  lived  in  Paris 
for  forty  years,  he  has  never  conquered  the  pronuncia- 
tion of  the  French  language,  but  has  invented  a  unique 
dialect  of  his  own.  Every  word  that  can  be  pronounced 
in  English  he  pronounces  in  English,  as  well  as  all  num- 
bers. For  instance,  a  phrase  such  as  La  guerre  de  mille 
huit  cent  quinze  etait  une  demonstration  de  la  liberie 
nationale  would  sound  like  this:  "La  gur  de  18 15  (in 
English)  etait  une  demonstration  (in  English)  de  la 
liberty  national."     It  is  almost  impossible  to  understand 

16 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

him;  but  he  will  read  for  hours  unabashed,  not  only 
to  us,  the  drowsy  and  inattentive  members  of  his  family, 
but  to  the  most  fastidious  and  illustrious  Frenchmen, 
There  are  two  brothers  and  a  sweet  little  sister.  I  shall 
have  a  beautiful  home,  or  rather  homes,  because  they 
have  not  only  a  handsome  hotel  in  Paris,  but  an  ideal 
country  place  (Petit  Val)  and  a  villa  in  Dinard. 

Good-by.  Greet  all  the  united  family  from  me,  and 
tell  them  not  to  worry  over  my  future,  as  you  wrote 
they  were  doing.  I  have  renounced  forever  the  pomps 
and  allurements  of  the  stage,  and  I  trust  the  leaves  on 
the  genealogical  tree  will  cease  their  trembling,  and 
that  the  Fays,  my  ancestors,  will  not  trouble  themselves 
to  turn  in  their  graves,  as  you  threatened  they  would 
if  I  did  anything  to  disgrace  them. 

Chateau  de  Petit  Val,  June,  1862. 

Dearest  A., — I  wish  I  could  give  you  an  idea  of 
Petit  Val  and  our  Hfe  as  lived  by  me.  Petit  Val  is  about 
twelve  miles  from  Paris,  and  was  built  for  the  Marquis 
de  Marigny,  whose  portrait  still  hangs  in  the  salon — the 
brother  of  Madame  de  Pompadour — by  the  same  archi- 
tect who  built  and  laid  out  the  park  of  Petit  Trianon. 

There  is  an  avenue  of  tall  poplar-trees  leading  from 
Petit  Val  straight  to  Choisy-le-Roi,  where  Madame  de 
Pompadour  lived,  a  distance  of  ten  miles. 

Like  Petit  Trianon,  Petit  Val  has  little  lakes  with 
shady  trees  bordering  them;  it  has  grottos,  water- 
falls, winding  paths,  magnificent  greenhouses,  fountains, 
a  rivihe,  pavilions,  aviaries,  terraces,  charmilles,  ber- 
ceaux,  enfin  tout!    One  feels  like  saying, ' '  Mein  Liebchen, 

17 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

was  willst  du  mehr?"  as  the  poet  Heine  says.  The  park 
is  surrounded  by  a  saut  de  loup  (a  sunken  wall  about 
twenty  feet  high  like  "la  Muette"  in  Paris).  There  is 
no  need  of  putting  up  sign-boards  with  ' '  No  trespassing 
here,"  as  no  one  could  scale  the  walls  of  the  saut  de  loup; 
so  we  feel  very  safe,  especially  when  the  five  iron  gates 
are  locked.  Beyond  the  park  are  the  chasse,  the  farm, 
the  vineyards,  and  the  potager.  We  are  so  near  Paris 
that  we  have  many  visitors.  The  drive  out  here  is 
a  pleasant  one,  going  through  Vincennes,  Charenton, 
Alfort,  etc.,  and  one  can  get  here  in  about  an  hour. 
Duke  de  Momy,  the  Duke  de  Persigny  and  the  Roth- 
schild family.  Prince  de  Sagan,  and  different  diplomats, 
not  to  speak  of  our  numerous  American  friends  who  are 
thanldul  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  are  frequent  guests. 
The  nearest  chateau  to  us  is  Montalon,  where  Madame 
de  Sevigne  used  to  live,  and  from  which  she  wrote  some 
of  her  letters.  If  she  ever  wrote  a  tiresome  one,  it  must 
surely  have  been  from  here,  as  the  damp  and  moldy 
house,  covered  with  creeping  vines  and  overgrown  with 
ivy,  surrounded  by  melancholy  cypress  and  poplar  trees, 
which  shut  out  the  view,  could  scarcely  have  inspired 
her  with  brilliant  ideas. 

Petit  Val's  potager  is  known  far  and  wide  for  the  best 
peaches  and  pears  in  France,  and  the  gardener  takes  all 
the  prizes  in  the  shows:  if  the  prizes  are  in  money,  he 
pockets  them;  if  they  are  diplomas,  he  allows  us  to 
keep  them.     He  is  a  rare  old  scamp. 

When  Mr.  Moulton  bought  the  place  he  had  the  right 
to  call  himself  "De  Petit  Val,"  and  he  could  have — if 
he  had  wished  to — ^been  "Moulton  de  Petit  Val. "  But 
he  turned  up  his  American  nose  at  such  cheap  nobility 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

as  this;  still  he  was  obliged,  much  against  his  will,  to 
conform  to  the  obligations  which  belonged  to  the 
estate.  For  instance,  he  had  to  give  so  many  bushels 
of  potatoes  to  the  cure,  so  many  bushels  of  grain  to  the 
doctor,  so  many  bushels  of  vegetables  to  the  post- 
master, and  to  them  all  so  many  casks  of  the  awful 
wine  we  produce  on  the  estate,  known  in  the  vernacular 
as  "le  petit  bleu." 

When  this  sour  wine  is  in  the  golden  period  of  effer- 
vescing, any  sick  child  in  the  village  ticketed  by  the 
doctor  can  be  brought  to  the  wine-presses  and  dipped 
in.  If  labeled  "tres  malade,'"  he  is  dipped  in  twice. 
Don't  you  think  that  this  is  a  dreadful  custom?  I 
think  that  it  is  awful  to  put  such  an  article  as  this  on 
the  market;  but  then  we  know  that  if  a  person  has 
tasted  it  once  they  never  do  it  again.  We  try  to  grow 
green  corn  here;  but  it  degenerates  unless  the  seed  is 
brought  every  year  from  America.  This  year,  not  hav- 
ing been  renewed,  the  com  is  a  failure ;  but  the  American 
melons  ripen  here  in  perfection,  and  rivalize  successfully 
with  the  big  French  melons.  The  other  day  an  am- 
bassador ate  so  many  of  them  that  he  begged  us  to  let 
him  stay  all  night.  We  were  quite  anxious  about  him, 
as  he  had  an  audience  with  the  Emperor  the  next  morn- 
ing;  but  he  managed  it  somehow. 

An  important  member  of  the  family  I  must  not  for- 
get! the  governess.  Mademoiselle  Wissembourg,  who  is 
very  much  of  a  personage.  After  she  has  given  my 
sister-in-law  and  myself  our  French  lessons  (for  I  still 
go  on  studying),  she  gives  the  cook  his  orders,  gives  out 
the  linen,  writes  the  letters,  smooths  away  all  annoy- 
ances, pays  the  bills,  and  keeps  the  accounts,  which  she 

19 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

does  in  an  oriental  sort  of  way,  with  such  fantastic 
summings-up  that  my  poor  father-in-law  is  often  on  the 
verge  of  distraction. 

Our  stables  are  well  garnished;  there  are  eleven 
horses  (my  pair  included),  fourteen  carriages,  three 
coachmen,  and  no  end  of  stable-boys.  My  coachman, 
who  was  one  of  the  "anciens  zouaves" — so  renowned  for 
their  bravery — generally  has  cramps  when  he  is  told 
that  I  am  going  to  drive  myself  to  Paris.  And  when  I 
drive  those  twelve  miles  I  do  it  in  double-quick  time 
with  Medje  and  Hilda,  my  two  "Hmousin"  horses.  No 
wonder  Louis  offers  up  a  prayer  to  the  saints  before 
starting,  and  sits,  holding  with  both  hands  on  to  his 
little  seat  back  of  me,  with  an  expression  on  his  face  of 
"O  Lord,  what  is  going  to  happen?" 

Paris,  January,  i86j. 

Dearest  Mama, — I  have  been  expecting  letters  from 
you  and  home  for  a  long  time,  but  nothing  has  come  yet. 

The  coldest  day  that  Paris  has  ever  known,  since 
goodness  knows  when,  has  suddenly  burst  upon  us,  and 
skating  is  just  dawning  on  the  Parisians. 

The  ice  on  the  little  lake  of  Suresnes  has  frozen 
d'emblee,  and  I  was  crazy  to  go  there  and  skate.  We 
had  stayed  late  in  the  country,  having  spent  Christmas 
en  famille,  and  only  returned  to  Paris  a  few  days  ago. 
I  had  just  received  the  skates  you  sent  me  for  my 
Christmas  present,  and  I  was  wild  to  try  them.  What 
beauties  they  are!  My  old  ones,  with  their  screws  and 
their  innumerable  straps,  seem  horribly  complicated  and 
clumsy.     As  you  advised,  I  had  very  tight-fitting  boots 

20 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

with  low  heels  made  for  them.  I  drove  out  to  the  Bois 
with  baby  and  his  nounou,  and  to  gain  time  put  on  my 
skates  in  the  carriage,  and  when  I  arrived,  I  walked 
down  to  the  lake.  I  never  saw  such  splendid  ice  (and  I 
have  seen  many  ices).  No  tardy  layers,  no  treacherous 
holes,  just  one  even  mirror  of  marble.  Imagine  my 
surprise  at  not  seeing  a  person  on  the  ice;  but  there 
were  masses  of  spectators  gathered  on  the  edge  of  the 
lake  looking  at  it.  The  Emperor  and  the  Empress 
were  there.  I  knew  them  by  sight;  but  the  only 
one  I  knew  personally  was  Prince  Joachim  Murat, 
our  neighbor  in  the  country.  He  married  Elizabeth 
Wagram,  and  they  lived  with  her  parents  at  Gros- 
Bois,  near  Petit  Val. 

Therefore,  I  stood  unknown  and  unnoticed.  I  ven- 
tured one  foot  on  the  indiscreet,  reflecting  surface,  then 
the  other;  and  while  the  assembled  crowd  gazed  at 
me  in  amazement,  I  made  the  tour  of  the  lake  on  my 
skates. 

My  experience  of  seven  years  on  Fresh  Pond  did  not 
fail  me,  and  I  skimmed  over  the  flawless  ice  on  the  outer 
edge,  like  a  bird  with  close-fitting  wings;  indeed,  I  felt 
like  one.  The  ice  was  so  clear  that  one  could  see  the 
grass  and  stones  at  the  bottom. 

This  was  an  exhilarating  moment! 

When  I  returned  to  the  starting-place  I  saw  that  no 
one  had  dared  to  follow  my  example,  and  as  an  act 
of  (I  hardly  dare  to  write  it)  silly  hravoura  I  took  baby 
out  of  the  nurse's  arms,  and  with  him  gurgling  and 
chuckling  with  delight,  his  little  head  on  my  shoulder, 
I  skated  around  with  him.  Only  once!  Don't  scold 
me!     I  felt  directly  what  a  wicked  thing  I  was  doing, 

3  21 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

for,  if  there  had  been  a  stone  or  a  branch  frozen  in  the 
ice,  I  might  have  fallen,  and  then — what  might  not 
have  happened!  But  as  long  as  I  was  alone  and  sure 
of  my  skates  I  was  not  afraid.  I  saw  some  of  the  more 
courageous  skaters  beginning  to  invade  the  ice,  and  I 
flew  back,  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself,  and  delivered 
my  rosy  burden  into  the  arms  of  its  nurse,  who  stood 
aghast,  like  a  frozen  Niobe,  with  wide  eyes,  watching 
me,  the  foolish  mother.  I  sent  them  back  to  Paris  in 
the  coupe,  begging  my  husband  to  come  and  fetch  me. 
I  was  vain  enough  to  wish  him  to  see  me  in  my  glory. 

Prince  Murat  came  up  to  speak  to  me.  As  we  saw 
the  Emperor,  who  was  on  skates,  coming  toward  us. 
Prince  Murat  said,  "Here  comes  the  Emperor  to  speak 
to  you."  I  felt  dreadfully  frightened,  for  I  was  not 
sure — it  being  the  first  time  I  had  ever  spoken  to  a  sov- 
ereign— what  was  the  proper  manner  to  address  him.  I 
knew  I  must  say  ' '  Sire, ' '  and  * '  votre  Majeste ' ' ;  but  when 
and  how  often  I  did  not  know.  His  Majesty  held  in  his 
hand  a  short  stick  with  an  iron  point,  such  as  are  used 
in  climbing  the  Alps,  and  managed  to  propel  himself 
forward  by  little  right-legged  shunts,  his  left  leg  not 
daring  to  do  anything  but  slide,  and  stopped  like  an 
engine  nearing  a  station,  puffing  and  out  of  breath- 
Prince  Murat  moved  aside,  and  his  Majesty  looked  at 
me,  then  at  Prince  Murat,  who,  in  an  introductory 
manner,  said, "This  is  Madame  Moulton,  your  Majesty, 
the  daughter-in-law  of  our  neighbor,  whom  you  know." 
"Ah!"  said  the  Emperor,  and,  turning  to  me,  he  said, 
"How  beautifully  you  skate,  Madame;  it  is  wonderful 
to  look  at  you!" 

I  (frightened  out  of  my  wits)  murmured  that  I  had 

22 


EMPEROR    NAPOLEON    III 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

skated  since  I  was  eight  years  old,  "One  can  only- 
skate  like  that  when  one  learns  young,"  the  Emperor 
said.  And  while  I  was  wondering  when  I  should  say 
"  Votre  Majeste,"  he  said,  "Oserai-je  demander  k 
une  patineuse  si  parfaite  de  patiner  avec  un  hum- 
ble patineur  (Dare  I  ask  such  a  perfect  skater  as 
you  to  skate  with  so  humble  a  skater  as  my- 
self)?" 

He  was  a  humble  skater  indeed!  I  answered  that  it 
would  be  a  great  honor  to  me.  He  then  stretched  out 
his  hands,  and  I  took  them  very  much  as  I  would  have 
taken  any  one  else's  hands,  and  we  ambled  forth,  I 
supporting  and  upholding  the  tottering  steps  of  the 
monarch  of  the  French  nation.  I  felt  that  the  eye  of 
the  nation  was  on  me,  and,  indeed,  it  was,  as  much  of 
the  nation  as  happened  to  be  there ;  but,  proud  as  I  was, 
I  wished  that  some  one  would  relieve  me  of  this  respon- 
sibility. Suppose  his  Majesty  should  fall !  .  .  .  Dreadful 
thought!  The  Emperor  skated  on  silently,  intent  on 
balancing  himself,  and  I,  you  may  be  sure,  was  intent 
on  keeping  him  intent.  He  stumbled  at  every  stroke; 
but  as  I  was  on  his  left  side — the  weak  one — we  got 
along  very  nicely,  and  we  felt  that  we  were  being  ad- 
mired— patineusement.  His  hat  fell  off  once  (he  skated 
in  a  tall  hat),  and  I  had  to  pick  it  up  for  him  while 
he  clung  to  my  hand  and  lifted  his  other  hand  to  put 
the  hat  on  his  head.  In  our  course  we  came  upon  the 
Empress,  and  we  slowed  down  neatly.  She  was  being 
supported  by  two  very  "trembling"  chamberlains,  who 
almost  knocked  us  down  in  their  efforts  to  keep  their 
balance.  When  we  had  come  to  anchor  the  Emperor 
said  to  the  Empress,  "This  is  Madame  Moulton!     Does 

23 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

she  not  skate  beautifully?"  I  ought  to  have  made  a 
courtesy;  but  how  could  I — on  skates? 

The  Empress  was  dressed  in  a  more  suitable  style 
than  the  other  ladies,  who  evidently  were  going  on  to 
some  receptions  (the  idea  of  combining  visiting  and 
skating!),  and  had  rather  long  dresses,  high  heels  and 
hats.  The  Empress,  though  crinolined  and  high- 
heeled,  had  a  short  skirt.  I  had  a  short  cloth  dress 
bordered  with  fur  and  a  little  fur  toque.  The  Empress 
looked  very  kindly  at  me  and  said  something  to  the 
Emperor  which  escaped  me.  When — oh,  when — should 
I  say  ' '  Your  Majesty ' '  ?  But  I  forgot  everything,  gazing 
at  the  Empress,  who  appeared  as  a  vision  of  beauty, 
with  a  bright  color  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes  sparkling  with 
animation.  The  Emperor  said  to  her,  "Tu  devrais 
patiner  avec  Madame  (You  ought  to  skate  with  Ma- 
dame)," letting  go  my  hands.  With  the  sweetest  smile 
she  said  to  me,  "Will  you  skate  with  mef"  Of  course  I 
was  only  too  enchanted.  Could  I  uphold  the  throne  in 
which  her  Majesty  was  strapped?  I  took  her  two  hands, 
and  we  sped  on  our  way  as  best  we  could.  I  had  some- 
times to  dig  my  skates  in  the  ice  to  prevent  too  much 
speed,  and  to  keep  us  both  on  our  legs,  one  pair  of  which 
were  Imperial.  "How  strange!"  said  her  Majesty,  in 
a  moment  of  breath-taking,  "that  I  should  have  never 
seen  you  before,  and  yet,  as  the  Emperor  says,  you  live 
in  Paris!" 

I  replied:  "Your  Majesty  [at  last  I  said  it],  I  spent 
last  winter  in  the  country  taking  care  of  my  health,  and 
last  summer  I  was  in  Dinard." 

"Ah,  je  comprends,"  with  a  lovely  smile,  "and  now?" 

"Now,  your  Majesty  [I  was  getting  on  nicely],  I  am 

24 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

going  to  be  presented  to  society  in  due  form  by  my 
mother-in-law." 

"You  will  then  come  to  the  Tuileries?" 

'  *  Of  course,  your  Majesty  [now  I  had  complete  court 
manners],  I  shall  come  there  first.  My  mother-in-law 
will  take  the  necessary  steps." 

"But  you  will  not  need  to  go  through  all  those  steps," 
she  said,  smilingly,  "now  that  we  know  you  " ;  and  added, 
most  kindly,  "To-morrow  you  must  come  and  skate 
with  us  again." 

After  this  little  breathing  spell  we  went  off  on  another 
tour,  and  as  all  is  well  that  ends  better  than  you  expect, 
I  was  thankful  to  bring  her  Majesty  back  safely. 
We  were  hailed  with  enthusiasm.  Charles,  coming 
back  with  the  coupe,  was  duly  complimented  by  both 
their  Majesties  on  the  prowess  of  his  spouse.  And  so 
we  drove  home. 

Here  endeth  the  first  chapter  and  my  first  appear- 
ance in  Parisian  society. 

January,  i86j. 

Dear  M., — ^We  received  the  invitation  for  the  first 
ball  at  the  Tuileries  before  my  mother-in-law  had  pre- 
sented me  to  the  Grande  Maitresse  Duchesse  de  Bassano ; 
but  her  reception-day  being  on  the  same  day  as  the  ball 
I  was  able,  fortunately,  to  go  there  and  to  be  presented 
to  her.  Mrs.  M preferred  to  make  the  "prelimi- 
nary steps"  with  me  in  her  wake. 

My  wedding-dress,  trimmed  with  the  beautiful  lace 
(which  came  in  my  corbeille),  seemed  the  proper  thing 
to  wear.  The  gentlemen's  costumes  are  "culottes 
courtes  blanches,  white  silk  stockings,  and  a  dress-coat 

25 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

with  gold  buttons."  My  mother-in-law  had  been  under 
the  coiffeur's  tongs  for  hours,  and  when  she  reappeared, _ 
frizzled  and  curled,  she  looked  so  unnatural  that  we 
hardly  recognized  her.  My  father-in-law  refused  point- 
blank  to  go  with  us.  When  asked,  "Don't  you  want 
to  see  Lillie's  first  appearance?"  he  answered,  "I  shall 
see  her  before  she  goes.  It  is  not  likely  I  shall  see 
much  of  her  when  she  is  once  there."  Which  would 
probably  have  been  the  case. 

Mrs.  Moulton,  wishing  to  go  in  style,  ordered  the  gala 
Cinderella  coach  w^hich  served  at  my  wedding.  It 
used  to  take  my  parents-in-law  to  and  from  the  Tui- 
leries  in  the  time  of  Louis  Philippe.  One  can  see  the 
like  in  Versailles,  all  glass  in  front,  white  satin  inside, 
with  steps  to  let  down,  and  swung  on  eight  undulating 
springs.  Charles  went  in  our  coupe,  and  I  must  say 
I  envied  him. 

It  is  a  long  drive  from  the  Rue  de  Courcelles  to  the 
Tuileries,  and  it  takes  a  long  time,  especially  when  the 
queue  commences  at  the  Place  de  la  Concorde.  I 
was  almost  dizzy  as  we  advanced  step  by  step,  pulling 
up  at  every  moment,  rocking  and  swaying  like  a  row- 
boat  in  a  gentle  swell,  and  when  we  got  a  chance  to 
go  faster  the  carriage  rocked  from  side  to  side,  all  the 
fringe  on  the  coachman's  box  waving  about.  The 
coachman  was  a  study  in  himself,  with  his  white  wig 
and  silk  stockings,  ensconced  like  a  hen  on  her  nest. 
The  valet,  with  powdered  hair,  white  silk  stockings,  and 
plush  breeches,  stood  on  his  little  platform  behind  the 
carriage,  holding  on  to  the  two  cords  on  the  side.  I 
felt  very  fine,  but  not  fine  enough  to  prevent  my  feel- 
ing a  little  sea-sick,  and  I  could  not  help  thinking  that 

26 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

it  was  a  great  pity  to  put  on  such  style  at  night,  when 
no  one  could  see  us.  I  would  have  Hked  better  to  have 
been  seen  in  the  daytime  in  this  pomp  and  glory. 

When  at  last  we  did  arrive  my  mother-in-law's 
feathers  were  somewhat  awry.  We  mounted  the  state- 
ly staircase,  lined  on  both  sides  by  the  superb  Cent 
Gardes,  standing  like  statues  on  each  step. 

Many  chamberlains  were  waiting,  and  we  were  con- 
ducted to  the  Grand  Maitre  de  Ceremonie,  who  passed 
us  on  to  a  less  grand  Maitre  de  Ceremonie,  who  showed 
us  to  the  place  where  we  were  to  stand  in  the  ballroom. 
It  was  a  magnificent  sight,  and  as  long  as  I  live  I  shall 
never  forget  it. 

The  beautifully  dressed  ladies  were  covered  with 
jewels,  and  the  gentlemen  in  their  showy  uniforms  were 
covered  with  decorations.  Each  lady  showed  to  great 
advantage,  as,  on  account  of  the  width  of  their  crino- 
lines, they  had  to  stand  very  far  apart. 

The  entire  ballroom  was  lighted  with  wax  candles, 
and  was  really  a  fairy  scene.  At  the  end  of  the  ball- 
room was  the  platform  on  which  stood  the  throne  of 
their  Majesties,  a  row  of  red-velvet  gilded  fauteuils 
placed  behind  them  for  the  Imperial  family.  The  hang- 
ings over  the  throne,  which  were  of  heavy  red  velvet 
with  the  Napoleonic  eagle  in  gold,  fell  in  great  folds 
down  to  the  floor. 

It  was  not  long  before  the  doors  were  thrown  open, 
and  every  one  who  had  been  limp  and  lax  while  waiting, 
chatting  with  his  neighbor,  straightened  himself  up  and 
bowed  to  the  ground,  as  the  Emperor  and  the  Empress 
walked  in.  Their  Majesties  stood  for  a  moment  at  the 
door,  and  then  went  immediately  to  the  throne. 

27 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

A  few  moments  later  the  quadrille  d'honneur  was 
danced  by  the  eight  most  princely  of  the  guests.  The 
Emperor  danced  with  the  Princess  of  Wales,  who  has 
the  prettiest  and  sweetest  face  one  can  imagine.  The 
Empress  danced  with  the  King  of  Saxony;  the  Prince 
of  Wales  with  the  Princess  Mathilde,  cousin  of  the  Em- 
peror; the  Grand  Duke  of  Russia  with  the  Princess 
Clothilde. 

Every  one  stood  during  the  whole  quadrille.  After 
that  was  finished  their  Majesties  circulated  among  us, 
talking  to  different  people.  Later  on  the  Empress,  when 
she  had  returned  to  the  throne,  sent  a  message  to  me 
by  Prince  Murat,  that  she  wished  me  to  come  to 
her. 

.  I  was  frightened  to  death  to  have  to  cross  the  ballroom, 
feeling  as  if  all  eyes  were  on  me,  and  tripped  along  so 
quickly  that  Prince  Murat,  at  my  side,  said,  "Don't 
hurry  so;  I  can't  keep  up  with  you." 

While  I  stood  before  the  steps  of  the  throne  the 
Empress  came  toward  me,  and  with  her  exquisite  smile, 
and  with  the  peculiar  charm  she  has  when  speaking, 
said,  "I  am  so  glad  to  see  you  here,  Madame  Moulton." 
"And  I  am  so  glad  to  be  here,  your  Majesty;  but  I 
went  through  all  the  preliminary  steps  all  the  same," 
I  said,  "because  ma  belle-mire  insisted  upon  it." 

This  seemed  to  amuse  her,  and  after  a  few  gracious 
words  she  left  me. 

As  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  seen  her  in  evening 
dress,  I  was  completely  dazed  by  her  loveliness  and 
beauty.  I  can't  imagine  a  more  beautiful  apparition 
than  she  was.  Her  delicate  coloring,  the  pose  of  her 
head,   her  hair,   her  expressive  mouth,   her  beautiful 

28 


EMPRESS    EUGENIE 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

shoulders,    and   wonderful    grace    make    a   perfect    en- 
semble. 

She  wore  a  white  tulle  dress  trimmed  with  red  velvet 
bows  and  gold  fringes;  her  crown  of  diamonds  and 
pearls  and  her  necklace  were  magnificent. 

On  her  breast  shone  the  great  diamond  (the  Regent) 
which  belongs  to  the  Crown. 

When  I  gazed  on  her  in  all  her  glory  and  prestige  I 
could  hardly  believe  that  we  had  been  such  chums  a 
few  days  before,  when  skating,  and  that  I  had  held  her 
hands  clasped  in  mine,  and  had  kept  her  from  falling. 

Countess  Castellane  gave  a  beautiful  costume  ball  the 
other  evening,  which  I  must  tell  you  about,  because  it 
was  so  original.  The  stables  were  connected  with  the 
salons  by  a  long,  carpeted  gallery,  at  the  end  of  which 
was  a  huge  fresco  on  the  walls,  representing  a  horse-race 
in  a  very  lifelike  manner.  Through  a  large  plate-glass 
window  one  could  see  the  whole  stable,  which  was,  as 
you  may  imagine,  in  spick-and-span  order;  and  Count 
Castellane's  favorite  horse  was  saddled  and  bridled,  a 
groom  in  full  livery  standing  by  its  side.  It  was  amus- 
ing to  see  ladies  in  their  ball  dresses  walking  about  in 
the  stables,  where  the  astonished  horses  were  blinking 
in  the  gas-light. 

In  one  of  the  quadrilles  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  were 
dressed  as  children,  in  short  socks  and  frocks  with  enor- 
mous sashes. 

Princess  Metternich  was  costumed  as  a  milkmaid; 
she  had  real  silver  pails  hung  over  her  shoulders. 
Duchesse  de  Persigny  was  a  chifonnUre  with  a  hotte  on 
her  back  and  a  gray  dress  very  much  looped  up,  showing 
far  above  her  wooden  shoes. 

29 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Paris,  i86j. 

Dear  M., — ^The  ice  in  the  Bois  continues  very  good; 
I  am  skating  every  day.  I  have  commenced  to  teach 
the  Httle  Prince  Imperial.  He  is  very  sweet,  and  talks 
very  intelligently  for  his  age.  The  other  day,  when  I 
was  skating  with  the  Empress,  a  gentleman  (I  think 
he  was  an  American),  skating  backward,  knocked 
against  us  with  such  force  that  the  Empress  and  I 
both  fell.  I  tried  with  all  my  might  to  keep  her  from 
falling,  but  it  was  impossible.  Her  first  words,  when 
we  were  helped  on  our  feet  again,  were,  "Don't  tell  the 
Emperor;   I  think  he  did  not  see  us." 

That  same  evening  there  was  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries, 
and  when  the  Empress  came  to  speak  to  me  she  said: 
"How  are  you?  I  can  hardly  stand  up."  I  answered, 
"I  am  worse  off,  your  Majesty;  I  can  stand  up,  but  I 
cannot  sit  down." 

Yesterday,  when  I  came  home  from  my  singing 
lesson  with  Delle  Sedie,  I  found  the  family  quite  ex- 
cited. The  Empress's  chamberlain  had  just  been  here 
to  say  that  the  Empress  desired  that  we  would  come  to 
the  Tuileries  next  Monday,  and  expressed  the  wish  that 
I  should  bring  some  music.  I  wrote  to  Delle  Sedie  and 
begged  him  to  advise  me  what  I  should  sing;  he  an- 
swered that  he  would  come  himself  and  talk  it  over 
with  me,  and  Monsieur  Plante,  a  young,  budding  pianist, 
who  was  ordered  from  the  Tuileries  to  accompany  my 
songs,  was  sent  for,  and  Delle  Sedie  came  at  the  same 
time. 

Delle  Sedie  thought  that  I  should  begin  with  "Tre 
Giorni  son  che  Nina,"  of  Pergolesi,  and  then  the  air 

30 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

from  "Lucia,"  and  if  I  were  asked  to  sing  again  the 
"Valse  de  Venzano." 

On  these  occasions  gentlemen  wear  the  pantalon 
collant,  which  is  a  most  unbecoming  and  trying  cos- 
tume, being  of  black  cloth  fitting  very  tight  and  taper- 
ing down  to  the  anlde,  where  it  finishes  abruptly  with 
a  button.  Any  one  with  a  protruding  ankle  and  thin 
legs  cannot  escape  criticism. 

Le  petit  lundi  of  the  Empress  was  not  so  petit  as 
I  expected;  there  were  at  least  four  or  five  hundred 
people  present. 

I  was  presented  to  the  Princess  Mathilde  (the  cousin 
of  the  Emperor),  a  very  handsome  and  distinguished- 
looking  lady,  who  is  married  to  and  separated  from 
Prince  Demidoff.  Her  palace  is  directly  opposite  our 
hotel.  I  was  also  presented  to  the  Princess  Clothilde, 
and  many  others.  I  was  very  nervous  before  singing, 
but  after  my  first  song  I  did  very  well. 

There  was  dancing,  and  everything  was  very  uncere- 
monious and  easy.  I  think  (I  will  just  say  it  to  you, 
dear  mama)  that  I  had  a  success.  Their  Majesties 
were  very  kind,  and  thanked  me  many  times,  and  the 
Duke  de  Momy  said  that  he  was  very  proud  of  his 
protegee,  for  it  was  he  who  had  suggested  to  the  Empress 
that  I  should  sing  for  them.  It  was  a  delightful  evening, 
and  I  enjoyed  myself  and  my  little  triumph  immensely. 
I  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Austrian  ambassador 
and  the  Princess  Metternich.  She  seemed  very  pleasant, 
and  put  me  directly  at  my  ease.  She  is  far  from  being 
handsome,  but  dresses  better  than  any  woman  in 
Paris,  and  has  more  chic.  In  fact,  she  sets  the  fashion 
as  much  as  the  Empress  does. 

31 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Emperor,  at  the  instigation  of  the  Duke  de 
Momy,  has  given  orders  for  the  construction  of  a  bridge 
over  the  Marne  near  Petit  Val — a  thing  we  needed 
greatly.  When  you  were  here,  if  you  remember,  one 
had  to  walk  from  the  station  to  the  river,  about  a  little 
quarter  of  a  mile.  Once  there  you  had  to  wave  and 
shout  for  the  ferryman,  who,  before  allowing  you  to  get 
on  the  boat,  would  attend  to  what  cattle  or  merchandise 
were  waiting  there  for  transport.  I  do  not  think  the 
bridge  would  have  been  built  had  not  the  Duke  de 
Morny  come  out  by  train  to  Petit  Val  to  avoid  the  long 
drive  of  twelve  miles  from  Paris,  and  had  been  bored 
by  this  primitive  means  of  transporting  his  august 
person.  He  said  he  was  astonished  and  mortified  that 
such  a  state  of  things  should  exist  so  near  Paris.  So 
was  every  one  else.  Otherwise  the  "bac"  would  have 
gone  on  forever. 

The  Carnival  has  never  been  so  whirlwindy  as  it  has 
been  this  year;  and  I  don't  know  how  the  purses  of 
our  lords  and  masters  are  going  to  hold  out;  and  while 
the  poor,  "whom  we  have  always  with  us,"  are  getting 
rich,  the  rich,  whom  we  don't  always  have,  alas!  are 
getting  poor.  For  the  private  fancy-dress  ball  at  the 
Tuileries  last  Monday,  to  which  the  guests  were  invited 
by  the  Empress,  Worth  alone  made  costumes  to  the 
time  of  two  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  yet  there 
were  not  four  hundred  ladies  invited. 

To  begin  at  the  top,  the  Empress  was  dressed  as  the 
wife  of  a  doge  of  Venice  of  the  sixteenth  century.  She 
wore  all  the  crown  jewels  and  many  others.  She  was 
literally  cuirass^e  in  diamonds,  and  glittered  like  a  sun- 
goddess.     Her   skirt   of   black   velvet   over   a   robe   of 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

scarlet  satin  was  caught  up  by  clusters  of  diamond 
brooches.  The  Prince  Imperial  was  allowed  to  be 
present;  he  was  dressed  in  a  black-velvet  costume  and 
knee  breeches ;  his  little,  thin  legs  black-stockinged,  and 
a  manteau  Venitien  over  his  shoulders.  He  danced 
twice,  once  with  Mademoiselle  de  Chateaubourg,  and 
then  with  his  cousin.  Princess  Anna  Murat,  who,  being 
made  on  Junoesque  lines,  and  dressed  as  a  Dutch 
peasant  with  enormous  gold  ornaments  over  her  ears, 
and  a  flowing  white  lace  cap,  towered  above  her  youth- 
ful partner.  He  is  only  seven  years  old,  and  rather 
small  for  his  age,  which  made  the  contrast  between  him 
and  his  colossal  partner  very  striking.  Princess  Mathilde 
looked  superb  as  Holbein's  Anne  of  Cleves.  She  wore 
her  famous  collection  of  emeralds,  which  are  world- 
known. 

Princess  Clothilde  had  also  copied  a  picture  from  the 
Louvre;  but  her  robe  of  silver  brocade,  standing  out 
in  great  folds  about  her  waist,  was  anything  but  becom- 
ing to  her  style  of  figure.  Princess  Augustine  Bona- 
parte (Gabrielli)  was  in  a  gorgeous  costume  of  some- 
thing or  other;  one  had  not  time  to  find  out  exactly 
what  she  was  intended  to  represent;  she  was  covered 
with  jewelry  (some  people  pretended  it  was  false,  but 
it  did  not  look  less  brilHant,  for  that).  A  fancy  ball  is 
an  occasion  which  allows  and  excuses  any  extravagance 
in  jewelry;  whereas,  at  an  ordinary  ball  it  is  considered 
not  in  good  taste  to  wear  too  much.  I  just  mention 
this  casually,  in  case  you  should  want  to  make  a  dis- 
play when  you  lunch  at  Miss  Bryant's  some  Sunday. 

Countess  Walewski  had  powdered  her  hair  and  wore  a 
Louis  XV.  amazon  costume,  a  most  unbecoming  yellow 

33 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

satin  gown  with  masses  of  gold  buttons  sewed  on  in 
every  direction.     This  was  not  very  successful. 

Marquise  de  Gallifet,  as  the  Angel  Gabriel,  with 
enormous  real  swan's  wings  suspended  from  her  shoul- 
ders, looked  the  part  to  perfection,  and  most  angelic 
with  her  lovely  smile,  blond  hair,  and  graceful  figure. 

Princess  Metternich  was  dressed  as  Night,  in  dark- 
blue  tulle  covered  with  diamond  stars.  Her  husband 
said  to  me,  "Don't  you  think  that  Pauline  looks  well 
in  her  nightgown?" 

Countess  Castiglione,  the  famous  beauty,  was  dressed 
as  Salammbo  in  a  costume  remarkable  for  its  lack  of 
stuff,  the  idea  taken  from  the  new  Carthaginian  novel  of 
Gustave  Flaubert.  The  whole  dress  was  of  black  satin, 
the  waist  without  any  sleeves,  showing  more  than  an 
usual  amount  of  bare  arms  and  shoulders ;  the  train  was 
open  to  the  waist,  disclosing  the  countess's  noble  leg  as 
far  up  as  it  went  incased  in  black-silk  tights. 

The  young  Count  de  Choiseul,  who  had  blackened 
his  face  to  represent  an  Egyptian  page,  not  only  carried 
her  train,  but  held  over  the  head  of  the  daughter  of 
Hamilcar  an  umbrella  of  Robinson  Crusoe  dimensions. 
Her  gold  crown  fell  off  once  while  walking  about,  and 
Choiseul  made  every  one  laugh  when  he  picked  it  up  and 
put  it  on  his  own  black  locks.  She  walked  on  all  un- 
conscious, and  wondered  why  people  laughed. 

My  costume  was  that  of  a  Spanish  dancer.  Worth 
told  me  that  he  had  put  his  whole  mind  upon  it;  it  did 
not  feel  much  heavier  for  that :  a  banal  yellow  satin  skirt, 
with  black  lace  over  it,  the  traditional  red  rose  in  my 
hair,  red  boots  and  a  bolero  embroidered  in  steel  beads, 
and  small  steel  balls  dangling  all  over  me.     Some  com- 

34 


DANIEL    FRANCOIS    ESPRIT    AUBER 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pliments  were  paid  to  me,  but  unfortunately  not 
enough  to  pay  the  bill;  if  compliments  would  only  do 
that  sometimes,  how  gladly  we  would  receive  them! 
But  they  are,  as  it  is,  a  drug  in  the  market. 

The  Emperor  was  in  domino — his  favorite  disguise — 
which  is  no  disguise  at  all,  for  every  one  recognizes 
him. 

I  met  the  famous  Auber  at  the  Tuileries  ball.  The 
Duke  de  Persigny  brought  him  and  introduced  him  to 
me,  not  because  Auber  asked  to  be  presented,  but  be- 
cause I  was  most  anxious  to  make  his  acquaintance, 
and  begged  the  duke  to  bring  him.  He  is  a  short, 
dapper  little  man,  with  such  a  refined  and  clever  face. 

Wit  and  repartee  sparkle  in  his  keen  eyes.  His 
music  is  being  very  much  played  now — "Fra  Diavolo  " 
and  "Dieu  et  la  Bayadere,"  and  others  of  his  operas. 
His  music  is  like  himself — fine  and  dainty,  and  full  of 
esprit;  his  name  is  Daniel  Frangois  Esprit.  M.  de 
Persigny  said,  "Madame  Moulton  desires  to  know  you, 
Monsieur  Auber."  I  said,  'T  hope  you  will  not  think  me 
indiscreet,  but  I  did  want  to  see  you  and  know  the 
most-talked-about  person  in  Paris."  In  reply  he  said: 
"You  have  the  advantage  over  me,  Madame.  I  have 
never  heard  myself  talked  about."  Then  the  Duke  de 
Persigny  said  something  about  my  voice.  Auber  turned 
to  me,  and  said,  "May  I  not  also  have  the  privilege 
of  hearing  you?"  Of  course  I  was  tremendously 
pleased,  and  we  fixed  a  day  and  hour  then  and  there 
for  his  visit. 

Prince  Jerome,  who  is  a  cousin  of  the  Emperor  (peo- 
ple call  him  Plon-Plon),  is  not  popular;  in  fact,  he  is 
just  the  contrary.    But  his  wife,  the  Princess  Clothilde, 

35 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

would  be  exceedingly  popular  if  she  gave  the  Parisians 
a  chance  to  see  her  oftener.  She  is  so  shy,  so  young, 
and  the  least  pretentious  of  princesses,  hates  society, 
and  never  goes  out  if  she  can  avoid  it.  Prince  Jerome 
is,  of  all  the  Napoleonic  family,  the  one  who  most  re- 
sembles Napoleon  I.  in  appearance,  but  not  in  character. 
There  is  nothing  of  the  hero  about  him.  Since  he  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  suddenly  indisposed  the  night  before 
the  battle  of  Solferino,  and  did  not  appear,  they  call 
him  "craint-plomb."     Se  non  k  vero  k  hen  trovato. 

The  stories  people  tell  of  the  Prince  are  awful;  but 
one  is  not  obliged  to  believe  them  if  one  does  not 
want  to. 

There  was  such  an  amusing  soiree  at  the  Duke  de 
Morny's  in  honor  of  the  Duchess's  birthday.  They  gave 
a  play   called   "Monsieur   Choufieuri   restera   chez  lui 

le , "  which  the  Duke  wrote  himself,  and  for  which 

Offenbach  composed  the  music  inspired  by  the  Duke, 
who  vowed  that  he  "really  did  make  the  most  of  it." 
But,  his  conscience  pricking  him,  he  added,  "At  least 
some!"  which  I  think  was  nearer  the  truth. 

It  was  a  great  success,  whether  by  the  Duke  de  Morny 
or  by  Offenbach,  and  was  the  funniest  thing  I  ever  saw. 
Every  one  was  roaring  with  laughter,  and  when  the 
delighted  audience  called  for  "I'auteur,"  the  Duke  came 
out  leading  Offenbach,  each  waving  his  hand  toward 
the  other,  as  if  success  belonged  to  him  alone,  and 
went  off  bowing  their  thanks  together.  Apropos  of 
the  Duke  de  Morny,  he  said  of  himself:  "I  am  a  very 
complicated  person.  Je  suis  le  fils  d'une  reine,  frere 
d'un  Empereur  et  gendre  d'un  Empereur,  et  tous  sont 
illegitimes."     It  does  sound  queer!     But  he  really  is  the 

36 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

son  of  Queen  Hortense  (his  father  being  Count  Flahaut) ; 
he  is  in  this  way  an  illegitimate  brother  of  Napoleon 
III.,  and  his  wife  is  the  daughter  of  the  Emperor  Nicho- 
las of  Russia.  There  you  have  a  complicated  case. 
My  young  sister-in-law  has  just  married  Count  Hatz- 
feldt,  of  the  German  Embassy  (second  secretary).  He 
is  very  good-looking  without  being  handsome,  and  be- 
longs to  one  of  the  most  distinguished  families  in  Ger- 
many. Countess  Mercy- Argenteau  appeared,  comet- 
like, in  Paris,  and  although  she  is  a  very  beautiful  woman, 
full  of  musical  talent,  and  calls  herself  une  femme  po- 
litique, she  is  not  a  success.  The  gentlemen  say  she 
lacks  charm.  At  any  rate,  none  of  the  elegantes  are 
jealous  of  her,  which  speaks  for  itself.  She  is  not  as 
beautiful  as  Madame  de  Gallifet,  nor  as  elegante  as 
Countess  Pourtales,  nor  as  clever  as  Princess  Mettemich. 

Madame  Musard,  a  beautiful  American,  has  a  friend- 
ship {en  tout  deshonneur)  with  a  foreign  royalty  who 
made  her  a  present  of  some — what  he  thought  value- 
less— shares  of  a  petroleum  company  in  America. 
These  shares  turned  into  gold  in  her  hands. 

The  royal  gentleman  gnashes  his  false  teeth  in  vain, 
and  has  scene  after  scene  with  the  royal  son,  who,  green 
with  rage,  reproaches  him  for  having  parted  with  these 
treasures.  But  the  shares  are  safely  in  the  clutches  of 
papa  in  New  York,  far  away,  and  furnishing  the  where- 
withal to  provide  his  daughter  with  the  most  wonderful 
horses  and  equipages  in  Paris.  She  pays  as  much  for 
one  horse  as  her  husband  gains  by  his  music  in  a  year, 
and  as  for  the  poor  prodigal  prince,  who  is  overrun  with 
debts,  he  would  be  thankful  to  have  even  a  widowed 
papa's  mite  of  her  vast  wealth.  Another  lady,  whose 
4  37 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

virtue  is  some  one  else's  reward,  has  a  magnificent  and 
much-talked-of  hotel  in  the  Champs  Ely  sees,  where  there 
is  a  staircase  worth  a  million  francs,  made  of  real  ala- 
baster. Prosper  Merimee  said:  "C'est  par  la  qu'on 
monte  a  la  vertu." 

Her  salons  are  filled  every  evening  with  cultured  men 
of  the  world,  and  they  say  that  the  most  refined  tone 
reigns  supreme — that  is  more  than  one  can  say  of  every 
salon  in  Paris. 

I  am  taking  lessons  of  Delle  Sedie.  He  is  a  delight- 
ful teacher;  he  is  so  intelligent  and  has  such  beautiful 
theories,  and  so  many  of  them,  that  he  takes  up  about 
half  the  time  of  my  lesson  talking  them  over. 

This  is  one  of  the  things  he  says :  ' '  Take  your  breath 
from  your  boots."  It  sounds  better  said  in  French: 
Prenez  voire  respiration  dans  vos  hotlines.  I  don't  think 
he  realizes  what  he  says  or  what  he  wants  me  to  do. 
When  I  told  him  that  I  had  sung  somewhere  unwill- 
ingly, having  been  much  teased,  he  said:  "You  must 
not  be  too  amiable.  You  must  not  sing  when  and  what 
one  asks.  There  is  nothing  like  being  begged.  You 
are  not  a  hand-organ,  pardieu,  that  any  one  can  play 
when  they  like."  And  this  sort  of  talk  alternates  with 
my  songs  until  time  is  up,  when  off  I  run  or  go,  feeling 
that  I  have  learned  little  but  talked  much.  However, 
sometimes  I  do  feel  compensated;  for  when,  to  demon- 
strate a  point,  he  will  sing  a  whole  song,  I  console  my- 
self by  thinking  that  I  have  been  to  one  of  his  concerts 
and  paid  for  my  ticket. 

Yesterday  I  received  the  inclosed  letter  from  the 
Duke  de  Morny,  inviting  us  to  go  with  him  in  his  loge 
to  see  a  new  play  called  "Le  deluge."     It  was  not  much 

38 


x^ 


^>-^^ 


_    -€__ 


^ 


FACSIMILE    OF    LETTER    FROM    THE    DIKE    DE    MORNY 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

of  a  play;  but  it  was  awfully  amusing  to  see.  Noah 
and  his  three  sons  and  his  three  daughters-in-law 
marched  into  the  ark  dragging  after  them  some  wiry, 
emaciated  debris  of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  which  looked 
as  if  they  had  not  eaten  for  a  week.  The  amount  of 
whipping  and  poking  with  sticks  which  was  necessary 
to  get  them  up  the  plank  was  amazing;  I  think  they  had 
had  either  too  few  or  too  many  rehearsals.  But  they 
were  all  finally  pushed  in.  Then  commenced  the  rain — - 
a  real  pouring  cats-and-dogs  kind  of  rain,  with  thunder 
and  lightning  and  the  stage  pitch-dark.  The  whole 
populace  climbed  up  on  the  rocks  and  crawled  about, 
drenched  to  the  skin,  and  little  by  little  disappeared. 
Then,  when  one  saw  nothing  but  "water,  water  every- 
where," the  ark  suddenly  loomed  out  on  top  of  the 
rocks  (how  could  they  get  it  vip  there?),  and  the  whole 
Noah  family  stepped  out  in  a  pink-and-yellow  sunset, 
and  a  dear  little  dove  flew  up  to  Noah's  hand  and  de- 
livered the  olive  branch  to  him.  The  dove  was  better 
trained  than  the  animals,  and  had  learned  his  role  very 
well. 

On  coming  out  of  the  theater,  we  found,  instead  of 
the  fine  weather  we  had  left  outside,  a  pouring  rain 
which  was  a  very  good  imitation  of  the  deluge  inside. 
And  none  of  us  had  an  umbrella! 

You  see  what  the  Duke  de  Momy  writes:  "I  am 
making  a  collection  of  photographs  of  the  young  and 
elegant  ladies  of  Paris.  I  think  that  you  ought  to 
figure  among  them,  and  though  it  is  not  an  equal  ex- 
change, I  am  going  to  ask  you  to  accept  mine  and  give 
me  yours."     And  he  brought  it  to  me  last  night. 

An  invitation  for  the  ball  at  St.  Cloud  for  the  King 

39 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

of  Spain,  who  is  now  in  Paris  to  inaugurate  the  new  rail- 
road to  Madrid,  and  another  ball  at  the  Tuileries  will 
keep  us  busy  this  week. 

Petit  Val,  June  lyth.  We  have  been  here  a  week, 
rejoicing  in  the  lilacs  and  roses  and  all  the  spring  de- 
lights. The  nightingales  are  more  delightful  than  ever. 
There  is  one  charmer  in  particular,  who  warbles  most 
enchantingly  in  the  cedar-tree  in  front  of  my  window. 
He  has  a  lady-love  somewhere,  and  he  must  be  desperate- 
ly in  love,  for  he  sings  his  little  heart  out  on  his  sky- 
larking tours  to  attract  her  attention.  I  try  hard  (naive 
that  I  am)  to  imitate  his  song,  especially  the  trill  and 
the  long,  sad  note.  I  wonder  if  either  of  them  is  de- 
ceived: whether  she  thinks  that  she  has  two  lovers 
(one  worse  than  the  other),  or,  if  he  thinks  he  has  a 
poor  rival  who  can't  hold  a  candle  to  him. 

Auber  wrote  a  cadenza  for  the  "Rossignol"  of  Ala- 
bieff,  which  he  thought  might  be  in  nightingale  style. 
But  how  can  any  one  imitate  a  nightingale?  Auber,  in 
one  of  his  letters,  asked  me:  " Chantez-vous  toujours 
des  duos  avec  votre  maitre  de  .  .  .  champs?" 


A  Madame  Lillie  Moulton 


Cadenza  Rossignol. 


echo. 


40 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Paris,  January,  1864. 

The  Princess  Beauvau  is  a  bom  actress,  and  nothing 
she  loves  better  than  arranging  theatricals  and  acting 
herself.  She  rooted  up  some  charity  as  an  excuse  for 
giving  a  theatrical  performance,  and  obtained  the 
theater  of  the  Conservatoire  and  the  promise  of  the 
Empress's  presence.  She  chose  two  plays,  one  of  Musset 
and  the  other,  'TEsclave,"  of  Moliere — and  asked  me 
to  take  part  in  this  last  one. 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "I  cannot  appear  in  a  French  play;  I 
would  not  dare  to."  But  the  Princess  argued  that,  as 
there  were  only  four  words  to  say,  she  thought  I  could 
do  it,  and  in  order  to  entice  me  to  accept,  she  proposed 
introducing  a  song;  and,  moreover,  said  that  she  would 
beg  Auber  to  furnish  a  few  members  of  the  Conserva- 
toire orchestra  to  accompany  me.  This  was  very  tempt- 
ing, and  I  fell  readily  into  the  trap  she  laid  for  me. 

I  consulted  Auber  about  my  song,  and  we  decided  on 
Alabieff's  "Rossignol,"  for  which  he  had  written  the 
cadenza.  He  composed  a  chorus  for  a  few  amateurs 
and  all  the  orchestral  parts. 

I  was  to  be  a  Greek  slave;  my  dress  was  of  white, 
flimsy,  spangled  gauze,  with  a  white-satin  embroidered 
bolero,  a  turban  of  tulle,  with  all  sorts  of  dangly  things 
hanging  over  my  ears.  I  wore  baggy  trousers  and 
babouches.  You  may  notice  that  I  did  not  copy  Power's 
Greek  slave  in  the  way  of  dress. 

I  was  completely  covered  with  a  white  tulle  veil,  and 
led  in  by  my  fellow-slaves,  who  were  also  in  baggy 
trousers  and  babouches.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that 
we  were  slaves,  for  we  were  overloaded  with  chains  on 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

arms,  ankles,  and  waist.  I  found  circulation  a  very- 
difficult  matter  shuffling  about  in  babouches,  which  are 
the  most  awkward  things  to  walk  in.  One  risks  falling 
forward  at  every  step. 

When  they  got  me  in  front  of  the  orchestra  the  slaves 
drew  off  my  veil  and  there  I  stood.  The  chorus  retired, 
and  I  began  my  song.  I  had  had  only  one  rehearsal 
with  the  orchestra,  the  day  before;  but  the  humming 
accompaniment  to  my  solo,  that  the  unmusical  slaves 
had  to  learn,  had  taken  a  week  to  teach. 

Every  one  said  the  scene  was  very  pretty.  My  song 
was  quite  a  success ;  I  had  to  sing  it  over  again.  Then 
I  sang  the  waltz  of  Chopin,  to  which  I  had  put  words 
and  transposed  two  tones  lower.  I  saw  Delle  Sedie 
in  the  audience,  with  his  mouth  wide  open,  trying  to 
breathe  for  me.  It  has  sixteen  bars  which  must  be 
sung  in  one  breath,  and  has  a  compass  from  D  on  the 
upper  line  to  A  on  the  lower  line.  Applause  and  flowers 
were  showered  on  me,  and  I  was  rather  proud  of  my- 
self.    I  felt  like  Patti  when  I  picked  up  my  bouquets! 

Later  on  in  the  play  I  had  to  say  my  "foiu*  words," 
which  turned  out  to  be  six  words:  On  ne  pent  etre  plus 
jolt.  Though  I  was  frightened  out  of  my  wits,  I  man- 
aged not  to  disgrace  m3^self ;  but  I  doubt  if  any  one  heard 
one  of  the  six  words  I  said.  The  Empress  sent  me  a 
little  bunch  of  violets,  which  I  thought  was  very  gra- 
cious of  her,  and  I  was  immensely  flattered,  for  I  think 
she  took  it  from  her  corsage.  I  had  noticed  it  there  at 
the  beginning  of  the  evening. 

One  of  the  bouquets  bore  the  card  of  Dr.  Evans,  the 
American  dentist.  It  was  very  nice  of  him  to  remem- 
ber me  and  send  me  such  beautiful  flowers.     Dr.  Evans 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

is  so  clever  and  entertaining.  Every  one  likes  him,  and 
every  door  as  well  as  every  jaw  is  open  to  him.  At  the 
Tuileries  they  look  on  him  not  only  as  a  good  dentist, 
but  as  a  good  friend;  and,  as  some  clever  person  said, 
"Though  reticent  to  others,  their  Majesties  had  to  open 
their  mouths  to  him." 

The  other  day  we  had  a  children's  party.  Auber 
came,  pretending  that  he  had  been  invited  as  one  of 
the  children.  When  he  heard  them  all  chattering  in 
French,  English,  and  German,  he  said,  "Cela  me  fait 
honte,  moi  qui  ne  parle  que  le  frangais."  He  was  most 
delighted  to  see  the  children,  and  seated  himself  at  the 
piano  and  played  some  sweet  little  old-fashioned  polkas 
and  waltzes,  to  which  the  children  danced. 

I  said  to  them:  "Children,  remember  that  to-day 
you  have  danced  to  the  playing  of  Monsieur  Auber,  the 
most  celebrated  composer  in  France.  Such  a  thing  is 
an  event,  and  you  must  remember  it  and  tell  it  to  your 
children." 

Miss  Adelaide  Philips  is  here  singing,  but,  alas!  with- 
out the  success  she  deserves.  She  appeared  at  Les 
Italiens  twice;  once  as  Azucena  in  "Trovatore,"  and 
then  as  the  page  in  "Lucrezia  Borgia."  If  it  had  not 
been  for  her  clothes,  I  think  that  her  efforts  would  have 
been  more  appreciated.  The  moment  she  appeared  as 
the  page  in  "Lucrezia"  there  was  a  general  titter  in 
the  audience.  Her  make-up  was  so  extraordinary,  Pa- 
risian taste  rose  up  in  arms.  And  as  for  the  Borgias, 
they  would  have  poisoned  her  on  the  spot  had  they 
seen  her !  Her  extraordinarily  fat  legs  (whether  padded 
or  not,  I  don't  know)  were  covered  with  black-velvet 
trousers,  ending  at  the  knee  and  trimmed  with  lace. 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

She  wore  a  short-waisted  jacket  with  a  short  skirt  at- 
tached and  a  voluminous  lace  ruffle,  a  curly  wig  too  long 
for  a  man  and  too  short  for  a  woman,  upon  which  sat 
jauntily  a  Faust-like  hat  with  a  long,  sweeping  plume. 
This  was  her  idea  of  a  medieval  Maffeo  Orsini.  As 
Azucena,  the  mother  of  a  forty-year-old  troubadour, 
she  got  herself  up  as  a  damsel  of  sixteen,  with  a  much 
too  short  dress  and  a  red  bandana  around  her  head, 
from  which  dangled  a  mass  of  sequins  which  she  shook 
coquettishly  at  the  prompter.  The  audience  did  not 
make  any  demonstration;  they  remained  indifferent 
and  tolerant,  and  there  was  not  a  breath  of  applause. 
The  only  criticism  that  appeared  in  the  papers  was: 
"Madame  Philips,  une  Americaine,  a  fait  son  apparence 
dans  'Trovatore.'  Elle  joue  assez  bien,  et  si  sa  voix 
avait  I'importance  de  ses  jambes  elle  aurait  eu  sans 
doute  du  succes,  car  elle  peut  presque  chanter."  Poor 
Miss  Philips!  I  felt  so  sorry  for  her.  I  thought  of 
when  I  had  seen  her  in  America,  where  she  had  such 
success  in  the  same  roles.  But  why  did  she  get  herself 
up  so  ?  There  is  nothing  like  ridicule  for  killing  an  artist 
in  France,  and  any  one  who  knew  the  French  could  have 
foreseen  what  her  success  would  be  the  moment  she 
came  on  the  stage.  She  became  ill  after  these  two  per- 
formances and  left  Paris. 

Paris,  May  7,  i86j. 

Dear  M., — Auber  procured  us  tickets  for  Meyerbeer's 
funeral,  which  took  place  to-day;  it  was  a  most  splendid 
affair.  Auber,  who  was  one  of  the  pall-bearers,  looked 
very  small  and  much  agitated.  The  music  of  the  church 
was  magnificent.     Auber  himself  had  written  an  organ 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

voluntary  and  Jules  Cohen  played  it.  Auber  said,  on 
going  to  the  cemetery :  "  La  prochaine  fois  sera  pour  men 
propre  compte." 

We  went  to  a  dinner  at  Mr.  William  Gudin's  (he  is 
the  celebrated  painter)  last  night.  There  were  the 
Prince  and  Princess  Metternich,  old  Monsieur  Dupin, 
Duke  de  Bassano,  Monsieur  Rouher,  Baron  Rothschild, 
and  many  other  people.  The  gallery  was  lit  up  after 
dinner,  and  they  smoked  there  (as  a  great  exception). 
Smoking  is  against  Madame  Gudin's  principles,  but  not 
against  his,  as  the  huge  table  covered  with  every  kind 
of  cigars  and  cigarettes  could  bear  witness.  Collecting 
cigarettes  is  a  sort  of  hobby  of  Gudin's;  he  gets  them 
from  every  one.  The  Emperor  of  Russia,  the  Chinese, 
the  Turkish,  and  Japanese  sovereigns,  all  send  him 
cigarettes,  even  the  Emperor.  These  last  are  steeped 
in  a  sort  of  liquid  which  is  good  for  asthma.  Every 
one  who  could  boast  of  asthma  got  one  to  try.  I  must 
say  they  smelled  rather  uninvitingly.  The  Emperor 
loves  Gudin  dearly,  and  orders  picture  after  picture 
from  him,  mostly  commemorative  of  some  fine  event  of 
which  the  Emperor  is,  of  course,  the  principal  figure, 
and  destined  for  Versailles  later.  Gudin  has  a  beautiful 
hotel  and  garden  near  us  in  the  Rue  Beaujon.  The  gar- 
den used  to  be  square ;  but  now  it  is  a  triangle,  as  a  new 
boulevard  has  taken  a  part  of  it.  Gudin  talked  much 
about  his  debts,  as  if  they  were  feathers  in  his  cap,  and 
as  for  his  law-suits,  they  are  jewels  in  his  crown! 

His  famous  picture  of  the  Emperor's  visit  to  Venice, 
now  in  the  Luxembourg,  is  an  enormous  canvas,  rather 
d,  la  Turner,  with  intense  blue  sky  deepening  into  a  green 
sunset,  pink  and  purple  waves  lashing  the  sides  of  the 

45 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

fantastic  vessel  in  which  the  Emperor  stands  in  an 
opalescent  coloring.  Some  black  slaves  are  swimming 
about,  their  bodies  half-way  out  of  the  water,  holding 
up  their  enormous  black  arms  loaded  with  chains,  each 
link  of  which  would  sink  an  ordinary  giant. 

Baroness  Alphonse  Rothschild  has  one  desire,  which, 
in  spite  of  a  fathomless  purse,  seemed  difficult  at  first 
to  fulfil.  What  she  wants  is  to  play  a  sonata  with  the 
orchestra  of  the  Conservatoire,  rien  de  moins!  She 
begged  me  to  ask  Auber  how  much  it  would  cost.  After 
due  reflection  he  answered,  twelve  hundred  francs.  She 
was  quite  surprised  at  this  modest  sum ;  she  had  thought 
it  would  be  so  many  thousands.  Therefore  she  decided 
to  convoke  the  orchestra,  and  has  been  studying  her 
sonata  with  all  zeal  and  with  a  Danish  coach.  I  don't 
mean  a  carriage,  but  a  man  who  can  coach,  after  the 
English  school  system. 

She  asked  me  to  keep  her  in  countenance,  and  wished 
me  to  sing  something  with  the  orchestra;  but  what 
should  I  sing  ?  Auber  could  think  of  nothing  better  than 
"Voi  che  sapete,"  as  the  orchestra  would  have  the 
music  for  it,  and  for  frivolity  he  proposed  "La  Mando- 
linata,"  of  Paladilhe.  He  said,  "II  faut  avoir  de  tout 
dans  sa  poche;"  and  the  dear  old  master  transcribed 
it  all  himself,  writing  it  out  for  the  different  instru- 
ments. I  shall  always  keep  these  ten  pages  of  his  fine 
writing  as  one  of  my  most  precious  autographs. 

On  account  of  his  cone  ours  Auber  was  asked  to  be 
present,  as  well  as  the  Danish  coach,  whose  occupation 
was  to  turn  the  leaves,  and  if  necessary  to  help  in  critical 
moments.  No  one  else  was  to  be  in  the  audience,  not 
even  our  husbands.     Well!    the  concert  came  off.     We 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

were  four  hours  about  it!  It  was  a  funny  experience, 
when  one  thinks  of  it,  and  only  Baroness  Rothschild 
could  have  ever  imagined  such  a  thing  or  carried  it 
through.  In  her  enormous  ballroom  we  two  amateurs 
were  performing  with  the  most  celebrated  orchestra  in 
the  world — eighty  picked  musicians,  all  perfect  artists 
— with  no  one  to  hear  us.  Auber  professed  politely  to 
be  delighted  with  all  he  heard,  and  clamored  for  more. 
The  orchestra  looked  resignedly  bored. 

The  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs,  the  Marquis  Drouyn 
de  I'Huys,  gave  a  costume  ball  which  was  even  finer 
than  the  last.  Worth,  Laferrieres,  and  Felix  outdid 
themselves.  The  Empress  had  a  magnificent  dress — ■ 
une  ancienne  dame  Bavaroise.  She  looked  superb,  ac- 
tually covered  and  blazing  with  jewels. 

The  Comtesse  de  Castiglione  had  imagined  a  costume 
as  "La  Verite."  She  was  dressed  entirely  in  white, 
looking  severe  and  classically  beautiful,  cold  as  a  winter 
day.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  fan  made  of  white  feathers 
which  had  a  mirror  in  the  center.  It  must  be  amusing 
to  be  a  professional  beauty.  When  she  goes  to  a  ball, 
which  she  never  does  before  midnight,  she  does  not  take 
the  trouble  to  speak  to  any  one ;  she  walks  into  the  ball- 
room and  just  stands  in  the  middle  of  it  to  be  looked 
at;  people  all  make  a  circle  around  her  and  glare.  A 
gentleman  will  go  and  speak  with  her,  and  they  stand 
like  two  trees  on  an  island,  he  doing  the  talking,  and  she 
gazing  around  her  to  see  what  effect  she  is  producing. 

The  Emperor  made  a  bet  that  he  would  make  her 
speak  three  words,  and  he  won  it,  because  she  answered 
a  question  of  his  by  saying,  "Pas  beaucoup.  Sire."  She 
lives   at   Passy,   and   calls  herself  la  recluse  de  Passy; 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

others  call  her  la  recluse  du  Passe.     I  do  not  admire  her 
beauty  half  as  much  as  I  do  the  Empress's. 

Countess  Walewski  was  dressed  like  a  fiery  Venitienne, 
all  yellow  and  gold.  She  looked  dazzling  and  like  a 
thorough  Italian,  which  was  not  difficult  for  her,  as  she 
is  one. 

The  Duchesse  de  Mouchy's  costume  was  a  Louis  XV. 
marquise,  which  did  not  suit  her  at  all ;  neither  did  the 
powdered  wig  nor  the  black  patches  on  her  face  become 
her. 

I  must  tell  you  about  my  dress.  It  was  really  one 
of  the  prettiest  there.  Worth  said  that  he  had  put  his 
whole  soul  on  it.  I  thought  that  he  had  put  a  pretty 
good  round  price  on  his  soul.  A  skirt  of  gold  tissue, 
round  the  bottom  of  which  was  a  band  of  silver,  with 
all  sorts  of  fantastic  figures,  such  as  dragons,  owls,  and 
so  forth,  embroidered  in  different  colors  under  a  skirt 
of  white  tulle  with  silver  and  gold  spangles.  The  waist 
was  a  mass  of  spangles  and  false  stones  on  a  gold  stuff; 
gold-embroidered  bands  came  from  the  waist  and  fell 
in  points  over  the  skirt.  I  had  wings  of  spangled 
silvery  material,  with  great  glass-colored  beads  sewed 
all  over  them.  But  the  chef-d'oeuvre  was  the  head-dress, 
which  was  a  sort  of  helmet  with  gauze  wings  and  the 
jewels  of  the  family  (Mrs.  M.'s  and  mine)  fastened 
on  it.  From  the  helmet  flowed  a  mane  of  gold  tinsel, 
which  I  curled  in  with  my  hair.  The  effect  was  very 
original,  for  it  looked  as  though  my  head  was  on  fire; 
in  fact,  I  looked  as  if  I  was  all  on  fire.  Before  I  left 
home  all  the  servants  came  to  see  me,  and  their  magni- 
fique,  and  superbe,  and  etonnant  quite  turned  my  head, 
even  with  the  helmet  on. 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Emperor  and  the  Duke  de  Persigny  went  about 
in  dominos,  and  flattered  themselves  that  no  one  recog- 
nized them;  but  every  one  did.  Who  could  have  mis- 
taken the  broad  back  and  the  slow,  undulating  gait 
of  the  Emperor?  And  though  he  changed  his  domino 
every  little  while  from  blue  to  pink,  and  from  white  to 
black,  there  never  was  any  doubt  as  to  where  he  was  in 
the  room,  and  every  eye  followed  him.  I  was  quite 
agitated  when  I  saw  his  unmistakable  figure  approach- 
ing me,  and  when  he  began,  in  a  high,  squeaky  voice 
(such  as  is  adopted  by  masked  people)  to  compliment  me 
on  my  toilette,  it  was  all  I  could  do  not  to  make  a 
courtesy.  I  answered  him,  feeling  very  shy  about 
tutoying  him,  as  is  the  custom  when  addressing  a  mask. 

"Cela  te  plait,  beau  masque  (Do  I  please  thee,  hand- 
some mask)?"  I  said. 

"Beaucoup,  belle  dame,  mais  dis-moi  ce  que  tu  es 
(Very  much,  beautiful  lady,  but  what  are  you  sup- 
posed to  be?)." 

"Je  suis  une  salamandre;  je  peux  traverser  le  feu  et 
les  flammes  sans  le  moindre  danger  (I  am  a  sala- 
mander; I  can  go  through  fire  and  flame  without  the 
slightest  danger)." 

"Oses-tu  traverser  le  feu  de  mes  yeux  (Dost  thou 
dare  to  brave  the  fire  of  my  eyes)?" 

"Je  ne  vois  pas  tes  yeux  a  travers  ton  masque,  mon 
gentilhomme  (I  cannot  see  thy  eyes  through  thy  mask, 
my  gallant  gentleman)." 

' '  Oserais-tu  traverser  la  flamme  de  mon  coeur  (Wouldst 
thou  dare  to  go  through  the  flame  of  my  heart)  ?" 

"Je  suis  sure  que  j'oserais.  Si  la  flamme  est  si  dan- 
gereuse,  prends  garde  que  ton  beau  domino  ne  brule 

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IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pas  (I  am  sure  that  I  would  dare.  If  the  flame  is  so 
dangerous  take  care  your  beautiful  domino  does  not 
bum)."  Such  silly  talk!  But  he  seemed  amused,  as 
he  probably  thought  that  I  had  no  idea  to  whom  I  was 
talking. 

Taking  a  red  counter  out  of  his  pocket  and  handing 
it  to  me  he  said,  "Will  you  take  supper  with  me?" 

"Not  alone,"  I  answered.  "You  are  too  dangerous." 

He  laughed  and  said,  "I  shall  not  be  alone,  my 
pretty  lady."  Then,  giving  me  another  coimter,  he 
said:  "This  is  for  your  husband.  If  you  will  be  at 
two  o'clock  at  that  door" — pointing  to  it — "it  wiU 
be  opened  for  you." 

At  two  o'clock  we  presented  ourselves  at  the  door  of 
the  said  salon,  which  was  immediately  opened  on  our 
showing  the  jetons,  and  we  found  ourselves,  as  I  thought 
we  should,  in  the  salon  where  their  Majesties  were  to 
sup.  There  were  already  many  people  assembled: 
the  Metternichs,  the  Persignys,  the  Gallifets,  the  Count 
and  Countess  Pourtales,  etc. — I  should  say,  twenty-five 
in  all.  There  was  a  magnificent  display  of  flowers  and 
fruit  on  the  table.  The  Emperor  came  in  with  the 
Empress,  not  looking  in  the  least  Cassar-like,  with  his 
hair  matted  down  on  his  forehead  and  his  mustaches 
all  unwaxed  and  drooping;  but  he  soon  twisted  them 
up  into  their  usual  stiffness.  I  noticed  that  people 
looked  at  me  persistently,  and  I  fancied  all  sorts  of  awful 
things,  and  felt  dreadfully  embarrassed. 

After  supper  the  Empress  came  up  to  me  and  said, 
"Where  can  one  buy  such  lovely  curls  as  you  have, 
chhe  Madame?"  I  understood  the  reason  now  for  the 
notice  I  was  attracting.     They  had  thought  that  the 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

curls  were  false.  I  answered,  hoping  it  would  sound 
amusing,  "Au  Magasin  du  Bon-Dieu." 

The  Empress  smiled  and  replied;  "Nous  voudrions 
toutes  acheter  dans  ce  magasin-la;  but  tell  me,  are 
your  curls  real  or  false?  You  won't  mind  telling  me 
(and  she  hesitated  a  little).  Some  people  have  made 
bets  about  it.  How  can  we  know,"  she  said,  "unless 
you  tell  us?"  "My  hair  is  all  my  own,  your  Majesty, 
and,  if  you  wish  to  make  sure,  I  am  perfectly  willing 
that  you  should  see  for  yourself."  And,  removing  my 
helmet,  I  took  out  the  comb  and  let  my  hair  down. 
Every  one  crowded  around  me,  and  felt  and  pulled  my 
hair  about  until  I  had  to  beg  for  mercy.  The  Emperor, 
looking  on,  cried  out,  "Bravo,  Madame!"  and,  gathering 
some  flowers  off  the  table,  handed  them  to  me,  saying: 
"Votre  succes  tenait  a  un  cheveu,  n'est-ce  pas?" 

Supposing  the  curls  had  been  false,  how  I  should  have 
felt! 

I  put  on  my  head-dress  again  with  the  flowing  tinsel 
threads,  and,  some  one  sending  for  a  brush,  I  com- 
pleted this  exhibition  by  showing  them  how  I  curled 
my  hair  around  my  fingers  and  made  this  coiffure.  I 
inclose  the  article  about  this  supper  which  came  out 
in  the  Figaro  (copied  into  a  New  York  paper). 

The  Emperor  and  Empress  not  unfrequently  take  a  great  liking 
to  persons  accidentally  presented  to  them,  invite  them  to  their  most 
select  parties,  make  much  of  them,  and  sometimes  rousing  a  little 
jealousy  by  so  doing  among  the  persons  belonging  to  the  Court.  Of 
the  ladies  officially  foremost,  the  reigning  favorites  are  Princess 
Mettemich,  extremely  clever  and  piquante,  who  invents  the  oddest 
toilettes,  dances  the  oddest  dances,  and  says  the  oddest  things;  the 
Marquise  de  Gallifet,  whose  past  life  is  a  romance,  not  altogether 
according  to  the  French  proverb  (fitting  school-girl  reading),  but 

SI 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

who  is  very  handsome,  brilliant,  merry,  and  audacious;  and  two 
others,  the  handsome  and  dashing  wives  of  men  high  in  the  employ- 
ment of  the  Emperor.  These  ladies  spend  enormous  sums  on  their 
toilette,  and  are  perpetually  inventing  some  merry  and  briUiant 
nonsense  for  the  amusement  of  the  Empress.  Among  the  persons 
from  the  "outside"  most  in  favor  just  now,  in  the  inner  circle  of  the 
court,  is  a  very  handsome  and  accomplished  American  lady,  the 
youthful  wife  of  a  millionaire,  possessing  a  magnificent  voice,  a  very 
amiable  temper,  and  wonderfully  splendid  hair.  After  a  very  small 
and  very  merry  party  in  the  Empress's  private  apartments  a  few 
nights  ago,  the  Imperial  hosts  and  their  guests  sat  down  to  an  ex- 
quisite "little  supper,"  this  lady  being  one  of  the  party.  During 
the  supper  one  of  the  Empress's  ladies  began  playfully  to  tease  Mrs. 

about  her  hair,  declaring  that  no  human  head  could  grow  such 

a  luxuriant  mass  of  lustrous  hair,  and  inviting  her  to  confess  to 
sporting  certain  skilfully  contrived  additions  to  the  locks  of  nature's 

bestowing.     Mrs,  modestly  protested  that  her  hair,  such  as 

it  was,  was  really  and  truly  her  own;  in  right  of  growth,  and  not  of 
purchase.  All  present  speedily  took  part  in  the  laughing  dispute; 
some  declaring  for  the  opinion  of  the  Lady  of  Honor,  the  others  for 

that  of  Mrs.  .     The  Emperor  and  Empress,  greatly  amused  at 

the  dispute,  professed  a  strong  desire  to  know  the  facts  of  the  case; 
and  the  Emperor,  declaring  that  it  was  clearly  impossible  to  get  at 
the  truth  in  any  other  way,  invited  Mrs.  M to  settle  the  con- 
troversy by  letting  down  her  hair,  and  giving  ocular  demonstration 
of  its  being  her  own.  The  lady,  whereupon,  drew  out  the  comb  and 
the  hairpins  that  held  up  her  hair,  and  shook  its  heavy  and  shining 
masses  all  over  her  shoulders,  thus  giving  conclusive  proof  of  the 
tenure  by  which  she  held  it.  As  Frenchwomen  seldom  have  good 
heads  of  hair,  it  is  probable  that  some  little  disappointment  may 
have  been  caused  to  some  of  the  ladies  by  this  magnificent  torrent 

of  hair,  displayed  by  Mrs.  M ,  but  the  gentlemen  were  all  in 

raptures  at  the  really  beautiful  spectacle,  the  lady's  husband,  who 
worships  her,  being  as  proud  of  her  triumph  as  though  his  wife's 
luxuriant  locks  were  his  own  creation. 

March,  1864. 

Dear  M., — Auber,  on  hearing  that  the  Empress  had 
asked  me  to  sing  in  the  chapel  of  the  Tuileries,  offered 
to  compose  a  Benedictus  for  me.     The  orchestra  of  the 

52 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Conservatoire  was  to  accompany  me,  and  Jules  Cohen 
was  to  play  the  organ.  I  had  several  rehearsals  with 
Auber  and  one  on  the  preceding  Saturday  with  the 
orchestra.  The  flute  and  I  have  a  little  ramble  together 
which  is  very  pretty.  The  loft  where  the  organ  is,  and 
where  I  stood,  was  so  high  up  that  I  could  only  see  the 
people  by  straining  my  neck  over  the  edge  of  it,  and 
even  then  only  saw  the  black  veils  of  the  ladies  and  the 
frequent  bald  heads  of  the  gentlemen.  The  Empress 
remained  on  her  knees  during  the  whole  mass.  The 
Emperor  seemed  attentive;  but  stroked  and  pulled  his 
mustaches  all  the  time. 

My  Benedictus  went  off  very  well.  The  chapel  was 
very  sonorous  and  I  was  in  good  voice.  I  was  a  little 
nervous  at  first,  but  after  the  first  phrase  I  recovered 
confidence  and  did  all  that  was  expected  of  me.  The 
Duke  de  Bassano  came  up  to  the  loft  and  begged  me 
to  come  down  into  the  gallery,  as  their  Majesties  wished 
me  and  Charles  to  stay  for  breakfast.  I  was  sorry 
Auber  was  not  invited.  We  found  every  one  assembled 
in  the  gallery  outside  the  chapel.  The  Empress  came 
straight  toward  me,  thanked  me,  and  said  many  gra- 
cious things,  as  did  the  Emperor.  There  were  very, 
very  few  people  at  breakfast — only  the  household.  I  sat 
between  the  Emperor  and  the  little  Prince,  who  said, 
*T  told  mama  I  knew  when  you  sang,  for  you  said 
'  Benedictus\"we  say  benedicteus." 

The  Princess  Mettemich  receives  after  midnight  every 
evening.  If  one  is  in  the  theater  or  at  a  soirde  it  is 
all  right,  but  to  sit  up  till  twelve  o'clock  to  go  to  her 
is  very  tiresome,  though  when  you  are  once  there  you 
do  not  regret  having  gone.  It  is  something  to  see  her 
5  53 


IN   THE    COURTS   OF    MEMORY 

smoking  her  enormous  cigars.  The  other  night  Richard 
Wagner,  who  had  been  to  the  theater  with  the  Metter- 
nichs,  was  there.  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  though  he  is 
so  dreadfully  severe,  solemn,  and  satirical.  He  found 
fault  with  everything;  he  thought  the  theaters  in  Paris 
horribly  dirty,  mal  soignes,  bad  style,  bad  actors,  orchestra 
second-rate,  singers  worse,  public  ignorant,  etc.  He  smiled 
once  with  such  a  conscious  look  and  scanned  people's 
faces,  as  if  to  say,  "I,  Richard  Wagner,  have  smiled!" 
But  he  can  very  well  put  on  airs,  for  he  is  a  genius.  At 
Les  Italiens,  Patti,  Mario,  Alboni,  and  Delle  Sedie  are 
singing  "Rigoletto."  They  are  all  splendid.  Alboni  is 
immensely  fat  and  round  as  a  barrel — but  what  a  voice ! 
It  simply  rolls  out  in  billows  of  melody.  The  "quartette" 
was  magnificent,  and  was  encored.  Patti  and  Mario 
are  at  daggers  drawn,  and  hate  each  other  like  poison, 
so  their  love-making  is  reduced  to  a  minimum,  and 
they  make  as  little  as  possible.  In  their  fondest  em- 
braces they  hold  each  other  at  arm's  length  and  glare 
into  each  other's  eyes.  Mario  is  such  a  splendid  actor 
one  would  think  he  could  conquer  his  dislike  for  her  and 
play  the  lover  better.  The  Barhier  de  Seville  is,  I  think, 
his  best  role;  he  acts  with  so  much  humor  and  sings 
so  exquisitely  and  with  such  refinement.  Even  in  the 
tipsy  scene  he  is  the  fine  gentleman.  Patti  sings 
in  the  singing  lesson  Venzano's  waltz  and  "II  Bacio." 
Her  execution  is  wonderful,  faultless,  and  brilliant. 

We  went  to  a  soiree  given  by  the  Marquise  de  Boissy, 
better  known  as  Byron's  Countess  Guiccioli,  who  in- 
spired so  many  of  his  beautiful  poems;  but  when  you 
see  her  dyed  and  painted  you  wonder  how  the  hlase 
Byron  could  have  been  all  fire  and  flame  for  her.     Fa- 

54 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

gnani,  the  painter,  who  did  that  awful  simpering  por- 
trait of  me,  painted  her,  it  being  stipulated  that  he 
should  make  her  look  ten  years  younger  than  she  is. 
He  had  a  hard  time  of  it!  But  now,  being  old  and 
married  to  the  senator,  Marquis  de  Boissy,  she  has  lost 
aU  claim  to  celebrity,  and  is  reduced  to  giving  forlorn 
soirees  with  a  meager  buffet, 

Beaumont  is  a  charming  painter,  and  a  friend  of 
Henry's.  When  he  comes  here,  as  he  does  very  often, 
he  puts  us  all  in  a  good-humor;  even  my  father-in-law 
forgets  to  grumble  at  the  reduced  price  of  stocks  and 
the  increased  rate  of  exchange.  His  picture  of  Circe 
charming  the  pigs  is  very  pretty.  Helen  and  I  are  both 
in  it ;  he  wanted  her  ear  and  hair  and  my  eyes  and  hair. 
I  am  not  Circe;  I  only  stand  in  the  background  ad- 
miring a  pig.  To  reward  us  he  painted  a  fan  for  each: 
mine  has  arrows,  doves,  my  initials,  "Beware,"  and 
cherubim  all  mixed  up,  making  a  lovely  fan. 

Baroness  Alphonse  Rothschild  sent  me  her  box  for 
the  opera,  and  I  asked  the  Metternichs  and  Herr  Wag- 
ner, the  composer,  who  was  dining  at  the  Embassy,  to 
go  with  me,  and  they  accepted.  The  Rothschilds' 
box  is  one  of  the  largest  in  the  opera-house.  The 
Princess  Metternich  created  a  sensation  when  we  en- 
tered— she  always  does — but  Herr  Wagner  passed 
unnoticed.  He  sat  behind  and  pretended  to  go  to 
sleep.  He  thought  everything  most  mediocre.  The 
opera  was  "Faust,"  which  I  thought  was  beautifully 
put  on  the  stage,  with  Madame  Miolan  Carvalho  as 
Marguerite  and  Faure  as  Mephistopheles.  They  both 
sang  and  acted  to  perfection;  but  Wagner  pooh-poohed 
at  them  and  everything  else.     Ahscheulich  and  grass- 

55 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

lich  alternated  in  his  condemning  sentences.  Nothing 
pleased  him. 

He  fidgeted  about  and  was  very  cross  during  the 
fifth  act,  where  the  ballet  is  danced. 

"Why  did  Gounod  insert  that  idiotic  ballet?  It  is 
banal  and  de  trop."  (France  is  the  only  place  where 
this  fifth  act  is  performed.) 

"You  must  blame  Goethe  for  that,"  retorted  the 
Princess  Metternich.  "Why  did  he  make  Faust  go 
to  the  Champs  Elysees  if  he  did  not  want  him  to  see 
any  dancing?" 

"Why,  indeed?"  grumbled  Wagner.  "Goethe  had 
much  better  have  let  Marguerite  die  on  her  straw  and 
not  send  her  up  in  clouds  of  glory  like  the  Madonna  to 
heaven,  and  with  ballet  music." 

"Well,"  said  the  Princess,  "I  don't  see  any  difference 
between  a  ballet  in  heaven  and  a  ballet  in  Venusberg." 

The  Emperor  has  made  a  fine  coup  de  popularite.  He 
refused  to  have  the  new  boulevard  named  after  his 
mother,  and  cleverly  proposed  it  to  be  called  Richard 
Lenoir,  the  man  who  led  his  fellow-workmen  in  the 
Revolution. 

We  were  invited  to  one  of  Rossini's  Saturday  eve- 
nings. There  was  a  queer  mixture  of  people :  some  diplo- 
mats, and  some  well-known  members  of  society,  but 
I  fancy  that  the  guests  were  mostly  artists;  at  least 
they  looked  so.  The  most  celebrated  ones  were  pointed 
out  to  me.  There  were  Saint-Saens,  Prince  Poniatowski, 
Gounod,  and  others.  I  wondered  that  Richard  Wagner 
was  not  there;  but  I  suppose  that  there  is  little  sym- 
pathy between  these  two  geniuses. 

Prince  Metternich  told  me  that  Rossini  had  once  said 

S6 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

to  him  that  he  wished  people  would  not  always  feel 
obliged  to  sing  his  music  when  they  sang  at  his  house. 
"J'acclamerais  avec  delice  'Au  clair  de  la  lune,'  meme 
avec  variations,"  he  said,  in  his  comical  way.  Rossini's 
wife's  name  is  Olga.  Some  one  called  her  Vulgar,  she 
is  so  ordinary  and  pretentious,  and  would  make  Ros- 
sini's home  and  salon  very  commonplace  if  it  were  not 
that  the  master  glorified  all  by  his  presence.  I  saw 
Rossini's  writing-table,  which  is  a  thing  never  to  be 
forgotten :  brushes,  combs,  toothpicks,  nails,  and  all 
sorts  of  rubbish  lying  about  pell-mell;  and  promiscuous 
among  them  was  the  tube  that  Rossini  uses  for  his 
famous  macaroni  a  la  Rossini.  Prince  Mettemich  said 
that  no  power  on  earth  would  induce  him  to  touch  any 
food  a  la  Rossini,  especially  the  macaroni,  v/hich  he 
said  was  stuffed  with  hash  and  all  sorts  of  remnants  of 
last  week's  food  and  piled  up  on  a  dish  like  a  log  cabin. 
"  J'ai  des  frissons  chaque  fois  que  j'y  pense." 

Not  long  ago  Baron  James  Rothschild  sent  Rossini 
some  splendid  grapes  from  his  hothouse.  Rossini,  in 
thanking  him,  wrote,  "Bien  que  vos  raisins  soient 
superbes,  je  n'aime  pas  mon  vin  en  pillules."  This 
Baron  Rothschild  read  as  an  invitation  to  send  him 
some  of  his  celebrated  Chateau-Lafitte,  which  he  pro- 
ceeded to  do,  for  "the  joke  of  it,"  he  remarked.  "It  is 
so  amusing  to  tell  the  story  afterward."  Rossini  does 
not  dye  his  hair,  but  wears  the  most  wiggy  of  wigs. 
When  he  goes  to  mass  he  puts  one  wig  on  top  of  the 
other,  and  if  it  is  very  cold  he  puts  still  a  third  one  on, 
curlier  than  the  others,  for  the  sake  of  warmth.  No 
coquetry  about  him! 

Rossini  asked  me  to  sing. 

57 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"I  will,  with  pleasure,"  I  said.  "I  only  wish  that  I 
knew  what  to  sing.  I  know  that  you  do  not  like  people 
to  sing  your  music  when  they  come  to  your  house." 

"Not  every  one,"  he  said,  beaming  with  a  broad 
smile;  "but  I  have  heard  that  you  have  an  unusually 
beautiful  voice,  and  I  am  curious  to  hear  you." 

"But,"  I  mischievously  answered,  "I  do  not  know 
*Au  clair  de  la  lune,'  even  with  variations." 

"Oh!  the  naughty  Prince,"  said  he,  shaking  his 
finger  across  to  where  Prince  Metternich  was  standing. 
"He  told  you  that.  But  tell  me,  what  do  you  sing  of 
mine?" 

Auber  had  told  me  to  take  "Sombre  Foret,"  of 
"William  Tell,"  in  case  I  should  be  asked.  Therefore 
I  said  that  I  had  brought  "Sombre  Foret,"  and  if  he 
liked  I  would  sing  that. 

"Bene!  bene!"  he  replied.  "I  will  accompany 
you." 

I  was  dreadfully  nervous  to  sing  before  him,  but 
when  I  had  finished  he  stretched  out  both  hands  to  me 
and  said: 

"Merci!  C'est  comme  cela  que  5a  doit  etre  chante. 
Votre  voix  est  delicieuse,  le  timbre  que  j'aime — mezzo- 
soprano,  avec  ces  notes  hautes  et  claires." 

Auber  came  up  flushed  with  delight  at  my  success, 
and  said  to  Rossini,  ' '  Did  I  say  too  much  about  Madame 
Moulton's  voice?" 

"Not  enough,"  replied  Rossini.  "She  has  more  than 
voice;  she  has  intelligence  and  le  feu  sacre — un  rossi- 
gnol  double  de  velours;  and  more  than  all,  she  sings 
my  music  as  I  have  written  it.  Every  one  likes  to  add 
a  little  of  their  own.     I  said  to  Patti  the  other  day :  '  Ma 

58 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

chire  Adelina,  when  you  sing  the  "Barbiere"  do  not 
make  it  too  strakoschonee'  [Strakosch  is  Patti's  brother- 
in-law,  and  makes  all  her  cadenzas  for  her].  If  I  had 
wanted  to  make  all  those  little  things,  don't  you  think 
that  I  could  have  made  them  myself?" 

Auber  asked  me,  "Do  you  know  what  Rossini  said 
about  me?" 

"No,"  I  answered,  "I  know  what  he  ought  to  have 
said.     What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said,"  Auber  replied,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in 
his  eye,  'Auber  est  un  grand  musicien  qui  fait  de  la 
petite  musique.'  " 

"That  was  pure  envy,"  I  said.  "I  should  like  to 
know  what  you  said  about  Rossini." 

"Well,  I  said,"  and  he  hesitated  before  continuing, 
"I  said  that  Rossini  est  un  ires  grand  musicien  et  fait 
de  la  belle  musique,  mais  une  execrable  cuisine.'' 

Rossini  adores  Alboni,  but  deplores  her  want  of  con- 
fidence in  herself.  She  has  such  stage  frights  that  she 
swears  that  she  will  have  to  leave  the  stage.  He  has 
written  "La  Messe  solennelle"  for  her  voice.  The 
"Agnus  Dei"  is  perfectly  wonderful.  She  sang  it  after 
I  had  sung.  -  If  she  had  been  first,  I  never  should  have 
had  the  courage  to  open  my  mouth. 

Auber  asked  him  how  he  had  liked  the  representation 
of  "  Tannhauser "  ?  Rossini  answered,  with  a  satirical 
smile,  "It  is  a  music  one  must  hear  several  times.  I 
am  not  going  again." 

Rossini  said  that  neither  Weber  nor  Wagner  under- 
stood the  voice.  Wagner's  interminable  dissonances 
were  insupportable.  That  these  two  composers  imag- 
ine that  to  sing  is  simply  to  degoiser  the  note;   but  the 

59 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

art  of  singing,  or  technic  was  considered  by  them  to 
be  secondary  and  insignificant.  Phrasing  or  any  sort 
of  finesse  was  superflous.  The  orchestra  must  be  all- 
powerful.  "If  Wagner  gets  the  upper  hand,"  Rossini 
continued,  "as  he  is  sure  to  do,  for  people  will  run  after 
the  New,  then  what  will  become  of  the  art  of  singing? 
No  more  hel  canto,  no  more  phrasing,  no  more  enuncia- 
tion !  What  is  the  use,  when  all  that  is  required  of  you 
is  to  beugler  (bellow)  ?  Any  cornet  a  piston  is  just  as 
good  as  the  best  tenor,  and  better,  for  it  can  be  heard 
over  the  orchestra.  But  the  instrumentation  is  mag- 
nificent. There  Wagner  excels.  The  overture  of  Tann- 
hauser  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre;  there  is  a  swing,  a  sway,  and  a 
rush  that  carries  you  off  your  feet.  ...  I  wish  I  had  com- 
posed it  myself." 

Auber  is  a  true  Parisian,  adores  his  Paris,  and  never 
leaves  it  even  during  the  summer,  when  Paris  is  in- 
sufferable. He  comes  very  often  to  see  me,  and  we  play 
duets.  He  loves  Bach,  and  we  play  Mendelssohn  over- 
tures and  Haydn  symphonies  when  we  are  through  with 
Bach.  Auber  always  takes  the  second  piano,  or,  if  a 
four-handed  piece,  he  takes  the  base.  Sometimes  he 
says:  "Je  vous  donne  rendez-vous  en  bas  de  la  page. 
Si  vous  y  arrivez  la  premiere,  attendez-moi,  et  je  ferai 
de  m6me."     He  is  so  clever  and  full  of  repartees. 

I  do  not  think  I  ever  talked  with  a  wittier  person  than 
he  is.  I  always  wish  I  could  remember  what  he  says; 
but,  alas !  when  he  goes  my  memory  goes  with  him. 

Though  so  old  (he  must  be  over  eighty)  he  is  always 
beautifully  dressed  in  the  latest  fashion,  trim  and  neat. 
He  says  that  he  has  never  heard  his  operas  seated  in 
the  audience;    it  makes  him  too  nervous.     He  has  his 

60 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

seat  every  night  in  the  parquet  of  all  the  theaters  in 
Paris.  He  only  has  to  choose  where  to  go.  He  once 
said:  "Je  suis  trop  vieux;  on  ne  devrait  pas  viellir,  mais 
que  faire?  c'est  le  seul  moyen  de  devenir  vieux.  Un 
vieillard  m'a  toujours  paru  un  personnage  terrible  et 
inutile,  mais  me  voici  un  vieillard  sans  le  savoir  et  je  n'en 
suis  pas  triste."  He  is  not  deaf,  nor  does  he  wear 
glasses  except  to  "dechiffrer  ma  propre  musique" — as 
he  says.  Another  time  he  said :  "  I  am  glad  that  I  never 
was  married.  My  wife  would  now  have  been  an  old, 
wrinkled  woman.  I  never  would  have  had  the  courage 
to  come  home  of  an  evening.  Aussi  j'aurais  voulu  avoir 
une  fiUe  (une  fille  comme  vous),  et  elle  m'aurait  certaine- 
ment  donne  un  gargon." 

I  quote  the  following  from  a  Paris  newspaper : 

Parmi  les  dames  qiion  admire  le  plus,  il  convient  de  citer 
Mme  Moulton. — C'est  la  premiere  fois  que  nous  revoyons 
Mme  Moulton  au  theatre  depuis  son  retour  d'Amerique. 
— Serait-elle  revenue  expres  pour  la  piece  d'Auber. — On  dit, 
en  ejffet,  que  dans  tous  ses  operas,  Auher  offre  le  principal 
role  a  Mme  Moulton,  qui  possdde  une  voix  ravissante. 

The  Emperor  once  said  to  Auber:  "Dites-moi,  quel 
age  avez-vous?  On  dit  que  vous  avez  quatre-vingt  ans." 
"Sire,"  answered  Auber,  "je  n'ai  pas  quatre-vingt  ans, 
mais  quatre  fois  vingt  ans. "  Is  he  not  clever  ?  Some  one 
was  talking  about  the  Marquise  B and  her  friend- 
ship {sic)  for  Monsieur  de  M ,  and  said,  "On  dit  que 

ce  n'est  que  I'amitie."  "Oh,"  said  Auber,  "je  connais 
ces  amities-la;  on  dit  que  I'amour  et  I'amitie  sont  frere  et 
soeur.     Cela  se  peut,  mais  ils  ne  sont  pas  du  meme  lit." 

And  another  time  (I  am  remembering  all  his  v.'itty 
sayings  while  I  can),  Prince  Metternich,  who  smokes 

6i 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

one  cigarette  after  the  other,  said  to  Auber,  "Vous  me 
permettez?"  wanting  to  put  his  ashes  in  Auber 's  tea- 
saucer.  Auber  said,  "Certainement,  mais  j'aime  mieux 
monter  que  descendre."  In  other  words,  J'aime  mieux 
mon  the  que  des  cendres.  How  can  people  be  so  quick- 
witted ? 

Auber  has  given  me  all  his  operas,  and  I  have  gone 
through  them  all  with  him  for  his  music.  I  sing  the 
laughing  song  in  "Manon  Lescaut"  and  the  bolero  in 
*  *  Diamants  de  la  Couronne. ' '  These  two  are  my  favorite 
songs  and  are  very  difficult.  In  the  laughing  song  I 
either  laugh  too  much  or  too  little.  To  start  laughing 
in  cold  blood  is  as  difficult  as  to  stop  laughing  when  once 
started.  The  bolero  is  only  a  continuous  display  of 
musical  fireworks. 

New  York,  May,  1864. 

When  we  arrived  in  New  York  (we  went  to  visit  my 
sister  and  my  mother)  we  were  overwhelmed  with  in- 
vitations of  all  kinds. 

I  made  a  most  (to  me)  interesting  acquaintance  at 
this  soiree,  a  Mrs.  Henry  Fields,  who  I  found  out  was 
the  famous  and  much-talked-about  "Lucie,"  the  gov- 
erness in  the  trial  of  the  Due  de  Praslin.  Every  one 
was  convinced  of  her  innocence  (she  pleaded  her  own 
case,  refusing  the  aid  of  a  lawyer).  Nevertheless,  she 
was  the  cause  of  the  death  of  the  Duchess,  as  the  Duke 
killed  his  wife  because  she  refused  to  give  "Lucie"  a 
letter  of  recommendation,  and  he  became  so  enraged  at 
her  refusal  that  he  first  tried  to  strangle  her,  and  then 
shot  her.  I  had  heard  so  much  about  this  murder  (it 
was  along  ago),  and  knew  all  the  details,  and,  what  was 

62 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

more,  I  knew  all  the  children  of  the  unhappy  woman 
whose  only  crime  was  to  love  her  husband  too  much, 
and  to  resent  "Lucie's"  taking  away  the  love  of  her 
children  from  her!  Warning  to  young  women:  Don't 
love  your  husbands  too  much,  or  don't  engage  a  too 
attractive  governess. 

Philadelphia,  July,  1864. 

Dear  Aunty, — We  came  from  New  York  a  few  days 

ago,  and  are  staying  with  mama's  friend,  Mrs,  M , 

who  is  a  very  (what  shall  I  say?)  fascinating  but  a  very 
peculiar  person.  She  is  a  curious  mixture  of  a  poetess 
and  a  society  woman,  very  susceptible,  and  of  such  a 
sensitive  nature  that  she  seems  always  to  be  in  the 
hottest  of  hot  water,  and  at  war  with  all  her  neighbors; 
but  she  routs  all  her  enemies  and  manages  everything 
with  a  high  hand. 

Her  daughter  is  just  engaged  to  a  Swedish  naval 
officer.  To  celebrate  the  engagement  they  gave  a  big 
dinner,  and,  as  the  Sanitary  Fair  is  going  on  just  now, 

President   Lincoln   is   here,    and   Mrs.  M had  the 

courage  to  invite  him,  and  he  had  the  courage  to  accept. 
It  is  the  first  time  that  I  have  ever  seen  an  American 
President,  and  I  was  most  anxious  to  see  him,  particu- 
larly as  he  has,  for  the  last  years,  been  such  a  hero  in 
my  eyes.  He  might  take  the  prize  for  ugliness  any- 
where ;  his  face  looked  as  if  it  was  cut  out  of  wood,  and 
roughly  cut  at  that,  with  deep  furrows  in  his  cheeks 
and  a  huge  mouth;  but  he  seemed  so  good  and  kind, 
and  his  eyes  sparkled  with  so  much  humor  and  fun, 
that  he  became  quite  fascinating,  especially  when  he 
smiled.     I  confess  I  lost  my  heart  to  him.   .   .   .  The 

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IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

dinner,  I  mean  the  food  part  of  it,  was  a  failure.  It 
came  from  Baltimore,  and  everything  was  cold ;  the  pdt^ 

de  foie  gras  never  appeared  at  all !     When  Mrs.  M 

mentioned  the  fact  to  Mr.  Lincoln,  pointing  to  the 
menu,  he  said  "the  pate"  (he  pronounced  it  patty)  has 
probably  walked  off  by  itself.  Every  one  laughed,  be- 
cause he  said  it  in  such  a  comical,  slow  way. 

After  the  gentlemen  had  smoked  (I  thought  they  were 
a  long  time  at  it)  we  were  requested  to  go  into  the  gal- 
lery, where  all  the  gas-lights  were  turned  up  to  the 
fullest  and  chairs  placed  in  rows,  and  Professor  Winter 
began  to  read  a  lecture  on  the  brain — of  all  subjects! 

Who  but  Mrs.  M would  ever  have  arranged  such 

an  entertainment? 

Professor  Winter  told  us  where  our  50,000  ideas  were 
laid  up  in  our  brains  (I  am  sure  that  I  have  not  50,000 
in  mine).  One  might  have  deducted  49,999,  and  still, 
with  that  little  one  left,  I  was  not  able  to  understand 
the  half  of  what  he  said. 

Another  wonderful  thing  he  told  us  was,  that  there 
are  five  thousand  million  cells  in  our  brain,  and  that 
it  takes  about  ten  thousand  cells  to  furnish  a  well- 
lodged  perception.  How  in  the  world  can  he  know 
that?  I  think  he  must  have  examined  his  own  ten 
thousand  cells  to  have  discovered  all  this  exuberance 
of  material.  The  President  looked  bored,  and  I  am 
sure  everybody  else  wished  Professor  Winter  and  his 
theories  (because  they  can't  be  facts)  in  the  Red  Sea. 
.  .  .  After  this  seance  manquee  1  was  asked  to  sing. 
Poor  Mr.  Lincoln!  who  I  understood  could  not  endure 
music.     I  pitied  him. 

"None  of  your  foreign  fireworks,"  said  Mr.  Trott, 

64 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

in  his  graceful  manner,  as  I  passed  him  on  my  way  to 
the  piano.  I  answered,  "Shall  I  sing  'Three  Little 
Kittens'?  I  think  that  is  the  least  fireworky  of  my 
repertoire."  But  I  concluded  that  a  simple  little 
rocket  like  "Robin  Adair"  would  kill  nobody;  there- 
for I  sang  that,  and  it  had  a  success. 

When  the  gaunt  President  shook  my  hand  to  thank 
me,  he  held  it  in  a  grip  of  iron,  and  when,  to  accentuate 
the  compliment,  meaning  to  give  a  little  extra  pressure, 
he  put  his  left  hand  over  his  right,  I  felt  as  if  my  hand 
was  shut  in  a  waffle-iron  and  I  should  never  straighten 
it  out  again. 

"Music  is  not  much  in  my  line,"  said  the  President; 
"but  when  you  sing  you  warble  yourself  into  a  man's 
heart.     I'd  like  to  hear  you  sing  some  more." 

What  other  mild  cracker  could  I  fire  off?  Then  I 
thought  of  that  lovely  song,  "Mary  Was  a  Lassie," 
which  you  like  so  much,  so  I  sang  that. 

Mr.  Lincoln  said,  ' '  I  think  I  might  become  a  musician 
if  I  heard  you  often  ;  but  so  far  I  only  know  two 
tunes." 

"'Hail,  Columbia'?"  I  asked.  "You  know  that,  I 
am  sure!" 

"Oh  yes,  I  know  that,  for  I  have  to  stand  up  and 
take  off  my  hat." 

"And  the  other  one?" 

"The  other  one!  Oh,  the  other  one  is  the  other 
when  I  don't  stand  up!" 

I  am  sorry  not  to  have  seen  Mr.  Lincoln  again. 
There  was  something  about  him  that  was  perfect- 
ly fascinating,  but  I  think  I  have  said  this  be- 
fore. 

65 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Niagara,  August,  1864. 

Dear  Aunty, — My  last  letter,  written  from  Philadel- 
phia, told  you  of  my  having  made  Mr.  Lincoln's  ac- 
quaintance. A  few  days  after  we  left  for  Niagara, 
taking  Rochester  on  our  way.  I  had  not  seen  Rochester 
since  I  was  eleven  years  old,  and  mama  and  I  both 
wanted  to  go  there  again. 

We  slept  in  Rochester  that  night.  The  next  morn- 
ing a  deputation  headed  by  the  director  of  the  peni- 
tentiary, flanked  by  a  committee  of  benevolent  ladies, 
called  upon  us  to  beg  me  to  sing  for  the  penitents  at 
the  penitentiary  the  next  day,  it  being  Sunday.  They 
all  said,  in  chorus,  that  it  would  be  a  great  and  noble  act. 

I  did  not  (and  I  do  not  now)  see  why  pickpockets  and 
burglars  should  be  entertained,  and  I  could  not  grasp 
the  greatness  of  the  act,  unless  it  was  in  the  asking. 
However,  mama  urged  me  (she  can  never  bear  me  to 
say  no),  and  I  accepted. 

At  the  appointed  time  the  director  called  for  us  in  a 
landau,  and  we  drove  out  to  the  penitentiary.  As  we 
entered  the  double  courtyard,  and  drove  through  the 
much  belocked  gates,  I  felt  very  depressed,  and  not  at 
all  like  bursting  forth  in  song.  Mama  and  I  were  led 
up,  like  lambs  to  the  slaughter,  on  to  a  platform,  passing 
the  guilty  ones  seated  in  the  pews,  the  men  on  one  side, 
the  women  on  the  other,  of  the  aisles,  all  dressed  in 
stripes  of  some  sort;  they  looked  sleepy  and  stupid. 
They  had  just  sat  through  the  usual  Sunday  exhortation. 

The  ladies  of  the  committee  ranged  themselves  so  as 
to  make  a  background  of  solemn  benevolence  on  the 
platform,   in   the  middle  of  which  stood   a  primeval 

66 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

melodion  with  two  octaves  and  four  stops.  One  stop 
would  have  been  enough  for  me,  and  I  needed  it  later, 
as  you  will  see. 

Here  I  was!  What  should  I  sing?  I  was  utterly  at 
a  loss.     Why  had  I  not  thought  this  out  before  coming? 

French  love-songs;    out  of  the  question. 

Italian  prayers  and  German  lullabies  were  plentiful  in 
the  repertoire,  but  seemed  sadly  out  of  place  for  this 
occasion. 

I  thought  of  Lucrezia  Borgia's  "Brindisi";  but  that 
instantly  went  out  of  my  mind.  A  drinking  song  urg- 
ing people  to  drink  seemed  absurdly  inappropriate,  as 
probably  most  of  my  audience  had  done  their  misdeeds 
under  the  influence  of  drink. 

I  knew  the  words  of  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  and  de- 
cided on  that.  Nothing  could  have  been  worse.  I 
attacked  the  squeaky  melodion,  pushed  down  a  pedal, 
pulled  out  the  "vox  humana"  stop — the  most  harm- 
less one  of  the  melodion,  but  which  gave  out  a  super- 
naturally  hoarse  sound — I  struck  the  chord,  and  standing 
up  I  began.  These  poor,  homeless  creatures  must  have 
thought  my  one  purpose  was  to  harass  them  to  the  last 
limit,  and  I  only  realized  what  I  was  singing  about  when 
I  saw  them  with  bowed  heads  and  faces  hidden  in  their 
hands ;  some  even  sobbing. 

The  director,  perceiving  the  doleful  effect  I  had  pro- 
duced, suggested,  "Perhaps  something  in  a  lighter 
vein. ' '  I  tried  to  think  of  ' '  something  in  a  lighter  vein , ' ' 
and  inquired,  "How  would  'Swanee  River'  be?" 

"First-rate,"  said  the  kind  director;  "just  the  thing 
— good,''  emphasizing  the  word  good  by  slapping  his 
hands  together.     Thus  encouraged,  I  started  off  again 

67 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

in  the  melancholy  wake  of  the  melodion.  Alas!  this 
fared  no  better  than  "Home,  Sweet  Home."  When  I 
sang  "Oh;  darkies!  how  my  heart  grows  weary!" 
the  word  weary  had  a  disastrous  effect,  and  there  was 
a  regular  breakdown  (I  don't  mean  in  the  darky  sense 
of  the  word,  the  penitents  did  not  get  up  and  perform  a 
breakdown — I  wish  they  had !) ;  but  there  was  a  regular 
collapse  of  penitents.  I  thought  that  they  would  have 
to  be  carried  out  on  stretchers. 

The  poor  warden,  now  at  his  wits'  end,  but  wishing 
to  finish  this  lugubrious  performance  with  a  flourish, 
proposed  (unhappy  thought)  that  I  should  address  a 
few  words  to  the  now  miserable,  broken-hearted  crowd. 
I  will  give  you  a  thousand  guesses,  dear  aunty,  and 
still  you  will  never  guess  the  idiotic  words  that  issued 
from  yoiu"  niece's  lips.  I  said,  looking  at  them  with  a 
triumphant  smile  (I  have  no  doubt  that,  at  that 
moment,  I  thought  I  was  in  my  own  drawing-room, 
bidding  guests  good  night) — I  said  (I  really  hate  to 
write  it):  "I  hope  the  next  time  I  come  to  Rochester 
I  shall  meet  you  all  here  again." 

This  was  the  first  speech  I  ever  made  in  public — I 
confess  that  it  was  not  a  success. 

Paris,  i86j. 

The  Princess  Mathilde  receives  every  Sunday  eve- 
ning. Her  salons  are  always  crowded,  and  are  what  one 
might  call  cosmopolitan.  In  fact,  it  is  the  only  salon 
in  Paris  where  one  can  meet  all  nationalities.  There 
are  diplomats,  royalists,  imperialists,  strangers  of  im- 
portance passing  through  Paris,  and  especially  all  the 
celebrated  artists. 

68 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

She  has  great  taste,  and  has  arranged  her  palace  most 
charmingly.  She  has  converted  a  small  portion  of  the 
park  behind  it  into  a  winter  garden,  which  is  filled  with 
beautiful  palms  and  flowering  plants.  In  this  attractive 
place  she  holds  her  receptions,  and  I  sang  there  the  other 
evening. 

Rossini  was,  as  a  great  exception,  present.  I  fancy 
that  he  and  his  wife  had  dined  with  the  Princess ;  there- 
fore, when  the  Princess  asked  him  to  accompany  me, 
saying  that  she  desired  so  much  to  hear  me  sing,  he 
could  not  well  refuse  to  be  amiable,  and  sat  down  to 
the  piano  with  a  good  enough  grace.  I  sang  "Bel 
Raggio,"  from  "Semiramide,"  as  I  knew  it  by  heart  (I 
had  sung  it  often  enough  with  Garcia).  Rossini  was 
kind  enough  not  to  condemn  the  cadenzas  with  which 
Garcia  had  interlarded  it.  I  was  afraid  he  would 
not  like  them,  remembering  what  he  had  said  to  Patti 
about  hers. 

I  was  amused  at  his  gala  dress  for  royalty :  a  much- 
too-big  redingote,  a  white  tie  tied  a  good  deal  to  one 
side,  and  only  one  wig. 

He  says  that  he  is  seventy-three  years  old.  I  must 
say  that  this  is  difficult  to  believe,  for  he  does  not  look 
it  by  ten  years.  He  never  accepts  any  invitations,  I 
know  I  have  never  seen  him  anywhere  outside  his  own 
house,  and  it  was  a  great  surprise  to  see  him  now. 
We  once  ventured  to  invite  him  and  his  wife  to  dinner 
one  evening,  when  the  Prince  and  Princess  Metternich 
were  dining  with  us;  and  we  got  this  answer:  "Merci, 
de  votre  invitation  pour  ma  femme  et  moi.  Nous 
regrettons  de  ne  pouvoir  I'accepter.  Ma  femme  ne 
sort  que  pour  aller  a  la  messe,  et  moi  je  ne  sors  jamais 
6  69 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

de  mes  habitudes."  We  felt  snubbed,  as  no  doubt 
we  deserved  to  be. 

Gounod  played  most  enchantingly  some  selections 
from  "Romeo  et  Juliette,"  the  opera  he  has  just  com- 
posed. I  hear  that  he  wants  Christine  Nilsson  to  sing 
it.  The  music  seems  to  me  even  more  beautiful  than 
"Faust."  Rossini  talked  a  long  time  with  Gounod, 
and  Auber  told  me  that  Rossini  said,  patting  Gounod 
on  the  back,  "Vous  etes  le  chevalier  Bayard  de  la 
musique." 

Gounod  answered,  "Sans  peur,  non!" 

Rossini  said,  "Dans  tous  les  cas,  sans  reproche  et  sans 
egal." 

Gounod  is,  I  think,  the  gentlest,  the  most  modest, 
and  the  kindest-hearted  man  in  the  world.  His  music 
is  like  him,  gentle  and  graceful.  Princess  Mathilde 
asked  me  to  sing  again;  but,  as  I  had  not  brought  any 
music,  Auber  offered  to  accompany  me  in  the  "Song 
of  the  Djins,"  from  his  new  opera,  which  I  had  so  often 
sung  with  him.  It  was  not  the  song  I  should  have 
selected;  but,  as  Auber  desired  it,  I  was  glad  to  gratify 
him,  and  was  delighted  when  I  saw  Rossini  compliment 
Auber,  who  (like  the  tenor  before  the  drop-curtain,  who 
waves  his  hand  toward  the  soprano  as  if  all  the  merit 
of  the  performance  was  due  to  her)  waved  his  hand  tow- 
ard me,  which  suggested  to  Rossini  to  make  me  a 
reflected  compliment. 

This  was  a  great  occasion,  seeing  and  hearing  Rossini, 
Gounod,  and  Auber  at  the  same  time.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  evening.  I  wonder  that  I  had  the  courage 
to  sing  before  them.  Among  the  guests  was  an  Indian 
Nabob  dressed  in  all  his  orientals,  who  in  himself  would 

70 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

have  been  sufficient  attraction  for  a  whole  evening,  had 
he  not  been  totally  eclipsed  by  the  three  great  artists. 
The  Nabob  probably  expected  more  homage  than  he 
received;    but  people  hardly  looked  at  him. 

I  was  presented  to  him,  and  he  seemed  glad  to  speak 
English,  which  was  not  of  the  best,  but  far  better 
than  his  French.  He  told  me  a  great  deal  about  his 
journey,  the  attractions  of  Paris,  and  about  his  country 
and  family. 

I  asked  him,  by  way  of  saying  something  (I  was  not 
particularly  interested  in  him  or  his  family),  how  many 
children  he  had.     He  answered,  "Quite  a  few,  milady." 

"What  does  your  Highness  call  a  few?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  I  think  about  forty,"  he  replied,  nonchalantly. 

"That  would  be  considered  quite  a  large  family 
here,"  I  said. 

The  Nabob,  of  course,  did  not  appreciate  the  pro- 
fundity of  this  remark. 

A  few  days  after,  the  Princess  Mathilde  sent  me  a 
lovely  fan  which  she  had  painted  herself,  and  Mr. 
Moulton  is  going  to  have  it  mounted.  I  am  very  happy 
to  have  it  as  a  souvenir  of  a  memorable  evening,  besides 
being  an  exquisite  specimen  of  the  Princess's  talent  as 
an  artist.  The  Princess  is  what  one  might  call  mis- 
cellaneous. She  has  a  Corsican  father,  a  German 
mother,  and  a  Russian  husband,  and  as  "cavaliere  ser- 
vente"  (as  they  say  in  Italy),  a  Dutchman.  She  was 
bom  in  Austria,  brought  up  in  Italy,  and  lives  in  France. 
She  said  once  to  Baron  Haussmann,  ' '  If  you  go  on  mak- 
ing boulevards  like  that,  you  will  shut  me  up  like  a 
vestal." 

' '  I  will  never  make  another,  your  Highness, ' '  he  answered. 

71 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Every  one  is  very  much  excited  about  a  young  Swedish 
girl  called  Christine  Nilsson,  who  has  walked  right  into 
the  star-light,  for  she  really  is  a  star  of  the  first  magni- 
tude. She  has  studied  with  Wachtel  only  one  year, 
and  behold  her  now  singing  at  the  Theatre  Lyrique  to 
crowded  audiences  in  the  "Flute  Enchantee."  Her 
voice  has  a  wonderful  charm;  she  sings  without  the 
slightest  effort,  and  naturally  as  a  bird.  She  has  some 
phenomenal  high  notes,  which  are  clear  as  bells.  She 
makes  that  usually  tedious  grand  aria,  which  every 
singer  makes  a  mess  of,  quite  lovely  and  musical,  hover- 
ing as  she  does  in  the  regions  above  the  upper  line  like 
a  butterfly  and  trilling  Hke  a  canary-bird.  A  Chinese 
juggler  does  not  play  with  his  glass  balls  more  dexter- 
ously than  she  plays  with  all  the  effects  and  tricks  of 
the  voice.  What  luck  for  her  to  have  blossomed  like 
that  into  a  full-fledged  prima-donna  with  so  little  effort. 
I  have  got  to  know  her  quite  well,  as  Miss  Haggerty,  whor 
was  at  some  school  with  her  in  Paris,  invites  her  often 
to  lunch  and  asks  me  to  meet  her. 

Nilsson  is  tall,  graceful,  sHght,  and  very  attractive, 
without  being  actually  handsome.  She  acts  well  and 
naturally,  and  with  intelligence,  without  exerting  her- 
self; she  has  the  happy  faculty  of  understanding  and 
seizing  things  au  vol,  instead  of  studying  them.  She 
has  a  regal  future  before  her.  A  second  Jenny  Lind! 
Their  careers  are  rather  similar.  Jenny  Lind  was  a 
singer  in  cafes,  and  Nilsson  played  the  vioHn  in  cafes 
in  Stockholm.  She  is  clever,  too!  She  has  surrounded 
herself  by  a  wall  of  propriety,  in  the  shape  of  an  Eng- 
lish dame  de  compagnie,  and  never  moves  unless  fol- 
lowed by  her.     This  lady  (Miss  Richardson)  is  correct- 

72 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ness  and  primness  personified,  and  so  comme  il  faut  that 
it  is  actually  oppressive  to  be  in  the  same  room  with 
her.  Nilsson  herself  is  full  of  fun  and  jokes,  but  at 
the  same  time  dignified  and  serious. 

Christine  Nilsson  gave  Mrs.  Haggerty  a  box  at  the 
Theatre  Lyrique,  where  she  is  now  playing  "Traviata" 
(I  think  it  was  the  director's  box),  and  I  was  invited  to 
go  with  her  and  Clem.  The  box  was  behind  the  cur- 
tain and  very  small  and  very  dark.  But  it  was  in- 
tensely amusing  to  see  how  things  were  done,  and  how 
prosaic  and  matter-of-fact  everything  was.  If  ever  I 
thanked  my  stars  that  I  was  not  a  star  myself  it  was 
then. 

Everything  looked  so  tawdry  and  claptrap:  the 
dirty  boards,  the  grossly  painted  scenery,  the  dingy 
workmen  shuffling  about  grumbling  and  gruff,  ordered 
and  scolded  by  a  vulgar  superior.  Of  course  the  stars 
do  not  see  all  these  things,  because  they  only  appear 
when  the  heavens  are  ready  for  them  to  shine  in. 

The  overture,  so  it  sounded  to  us,  was  a  clash  of 
drums,  trumpets,  and  trombones  all  jumbled  together. 
After  the  three  knocks  of  the  director,  which  started 
up  the  dust  of  ages  into  our  faces  until  we  were  almost 
suffocated,  the  curtain  rose  slowly  with  great  noise  and 
rumbling. 

The  audience  looked  formidable  as  we  saw  it  through 
the  mist  of  cloudy  gas-light,  a  sea  of  faces,  of  color  and 
vagueness.  The  incongruity  of  costumes  was  a  thing 
to  weep  over.  If  they  had  tried  they  could  not  have  made 
it  worse.  The  lady  guests,  walking  and  chatting,  in  a 
soi-disant  elegant  salon,  were  dressed,  some  in  Louis 
XV.  splendor,  some  in  dogesses'  brocades,  some  in  modern 

73 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

finery,  with  bows  and  ribbons  and  things  looped  up 
any  way.  Nilsson  was  dressed  in  quite  modern  style — 
flounces,  laces,  and  fringes,  and  so  forth,  while  Alfredo  had 
donned  a  black  velvet  coat  d  la  something,  with  a  huge 
jabot  which  fell  over  a  frilled  shirt-front.  He  wore 
short  velvet  trousers,  and  black-silk  stockings  covered 
his  thin  legs  without  the  least  attempt  at  padding. 

The  "padre"  was  in  a  shooting-jacket,  evidently 
just  in  from  a  riding-tour.  He  held  a  riding-stick,  and 
wore  riding-gantlets  which  he  flourished  about  with 
such  wide  gesticulations  that  I  thought  he  was  going 
to  hit  Nilsson  in  the  face. 

We  could  not  hear  the  singing  so  well  from  where 
we  sat;  but  the  orchestra  was  overpowering,  and  the 
applause  deafening,  like  peals  of  thunder. 

I  laughed  when  the  gang  of  workmen  rushed  on  to 
the  stage  as  soon  as  the  curtain  came  down,  and  began 
sweeping  and  taking  down  one  set  of  furniture  and 
putting  on  another;  especially  in  the  last  act,  when 
Violetta's  bed  came  on  and  the  men  threw  the  pillows 
from  one  to  the  other,  as  if  they  were  playing  ball. 
They  hung  up  a  crucifix,  which  I  thought  was  unneces- 
sary, and  brought  in  a  candlestick.  I  wondered  if  they 
were  going  to  put  a  warming-pan  in  the  bed.  A  mat 
was  laid  down  with  great  precision.  Then  Nilsson  came 
in,  dressed  in  a  flounced  petticoat  trimmed  with  lace,  a 
"matinee,"  and  black  slippers,  and  got  into  the  bed. 

After  the  performance  was  over  the  curtain  was 
raised  and  the  artists  came  forward  to  bow;  the  stage 
was  covered  with  flowers  and  wreaths.  And  Nilsson, 
in  picking  up  her  floral  tributes,  was  wreathed  in  smiles ; 
but  they  faded  like  mist  before  the  sun  the  minute  the 

74 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

curtain  was  lowered,  and  she  looked  tired  and  worn 
out.  Her  maid  was  there,  waiting  with  a  shawl  to  wrap 
around  the  shoulders  of  the  hot  prima-donna,  and  the 
prim  Miss  Richardson  ready  to  escort  her  to  her  room, 
while  the  army  of  shirt-sleeved  men  invaded  the  stage 
like  bees,  with  brooms  which,  though  anything  but  new, 
I  hope  swept  clean.  Then  everything  was  dark  and  dis- 
mal, lit  only  by  one  or  two  candles  and  a  solitary  lan- 
tern. All  that  was  so  brilliant  a  moment  before  was 
now  only  a  confused  mass  of  disillusions. 

Nilsson  and  her  duenna  drove  to  Mrs.  H 's  and 

had  supper  with  us.  One  would  never  have  dreamt 
that  she  had  been  dying  of  consumption  an  hour  before, 
to  see  her  stow  away  ham,  salad,  and  pudding  in  great 
quantities.  Then  she  embraced  us  all  and  drove  off  in  her 
coupe.  The  star  was  going  to  set.  I  went  home,  glad  that 
my  life  lay  in  other  paths. 

Paris,  March,  1865. 

Dear   M., — Do  not  be  anxious  about  me.     When 

Mrs.  M wrote,  I  was  really  in  danger  of  a  fluxion  de 

poitrine.  I  am  sorry  she  worried  you  unnecessarily. 
I  am  much  better;  in  fact,  I  am  far  on  the  road  to 
recovery.  If  every  one  had  such  a  nice  time  when 
they  are  ill  as  I  had  they  would  not  be  in  a  hurry  to 
get  well.  When  I  was  convalescent  enough  to  come 
down-stairs,  and  the  doctor  had  said  his  last  word  (the 
traditional  "you  must  be  careful"),  I  had  my  chaise- 
longue  moved  down  into  Henry's  studio,  and  Monsieur 
Gudin,  who  is  the  kindest  man  in  the  world,  offered  to 
come  there  and  paint  a  picture  in  order  to  amuse  and 
divert  me. 

75 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Bierstadt,  the  American  painter,  who  is  in  Paris,  also 
proposed  to  come.  Then  those  two  artists  ordered  can- 
vases of  the  same  size,  and  Beaumont,  not  to  be  out- 
done, ordered  a  larger  canvas,  and  Henry  announced 
his  intention  of  finishing  an  already  commenced  land- 
scape. 

Behold,  then,  your  invalid,  surrounded  by  these  cele- 
brated artists,  reclining  on  a  chaise-longue,  a  table  with 
tisanes  and  remedies  near  by,  and  the  four  painters 
painting.  Gudin  is  painting  a  seascape;  Bierstadt, 
a  picture  of  California;  Beaumont,  of  course,  his  grace- 
ful ladies  and  cherubs.  It  amused  me  to  see  how  dif- 
ferently they  painted.  Gudin  spread  his  paints  on  a 
very  large  table  covered  with  glass,  and  used  a  great 
many  brushes;  Bierstadt  used  a  huge  palette,  and 
painted  rather  finically,  whereas  Beaumont  had  quite 
a  small  palette  and  used  few  brushes.  I  was  very 
sorry  when  my  convalescence  came  to  an  end  and  the 
pictures  were  finished ;  but  I  had  the  delight  of  receiving 
the  four  pictures,  which  the  four  artists  begged  me  to 
accept  as  a  souvenir  of  the  "pleasant  days  in  the 
studio." 

Another  pleasant  thing  happened  during  "the  pleas- 
ant days  in  the  studio,"  which  was  the  gift  of  a  beauti- 
ful gold  medal  which  the  Emperor  sent  me  as  a  souvenir 
of  the  day  I  sang  the  Benedictus  in  the  chapel  of  the 
Tuileries.  It  is  a  little  larger  than  a  five-franc  piece, 
and  has  on  one  side  the  head  of  the  Emperor  encircled 
by  "Chapelle  des  Tuileries,"  and  on  the  other  side 
"Madame  Moulton"   and  the  date. 

We  are  all  dreadfully  sad  about  the  Duke  de  Momy's 
death.     He  was  very  much  appreciated,  and  a  favorite 

76 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

with  every  one.  They  say  that  the  Duchess  cut  off 
all  her  hair  and  put  it  into  his  coffin.  I  never  heard 
before  that  she  was  such  a  loving  wife.  I  only  hope 
that  she  will  not  need  her  braids  to  keep  on  her  next 
wedding-wreath. 

We  have  just  heard  of  the  assassination  of  that  good, 
kind  President  Lincoln.     How  dreadful! 

I  have  a  new  teacher  called  Delsarte,  the  most  unique 
specimen  I  have  ever  met.  My  first  impression  was 
that  I  was  in  the  presence  of  a  concierge  in  a  second-class 
establishment;  but  I  soon  saw  that  he  was  the  great 
master  I  had  heard  described  so  often.  He  is  not  a 
real  singing  teacher,  for  he  does  not  think  the  voice 
worth  speaking  of;  he  has  a  theory  that  one  can  ex- 
press more  by  the  features  and  all  the  tricks  he  teaches, 
and  especially  by  the  manner  of  enunciation,  than  by  the 
voice.  We  were  (Aunty  and  I)  first  led  into  the  salon, 
and  then  into  the  music-room,  so  called  because  the 
piano  is  there  and  the  stand  for  music,  but  no  other 
incumbrances  as  furniture. 

On  the  walls  were  hung  some  awful  diagrams  to  illus- 
trate the  master's  method  of  teaching.  These  diagrams 
are  crayon-drawings  of  life-sized  faces  depicting  every 
emotion  that  the  human  face  is  capable  of  expressing, 
such  as  love,  sorrow,  murder,  terror,  joy,  surprise,  etc. 

It  is  Delsarte's  way,  when  he  wants  you  to  express 
one  of  these  emotions  in  your  voice,  to  point  with  a 
soiled  forefinger  to  the  picture  in  question  which  he 
expects  you  to  imitate.  The  result  lends  expression  to 
your  voice. 

The  piano  is  of  a  pre-Raphaelite  construction,  and 
stands  in  the  middle  of  the  room  like  an  island  in  a 

71 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

lake,  with  a  footstool  placed  over  the  pedals  (he  considers 
the  pedal  as  useless).  The  lid  of  the  piano  was  absent, 
and,  to  judge  from  the  inside,  I  should  say  that  the 
piano  was  the  receptacle  for  everything  that  belonged 
to  the  Delsarte  homestead.  There  were  inkstands,  pens, 
pencils,  knives,  wire,  matches,  toothpicks,  half-smoked 
cigars,  even  remnants  of  his  luncheon,  which  seemed  to 
have  been  black  bread  and  cheese,  and  dust  galore. 
Delsarte  had  on  a  pair  of  much- worn  embroidered  slip- 
pers, a  velvet  calotte,  the  tassels  of  which  swayed  with 
each  of  his  emotions,  and  a  dilapidated  robe  de  chambre 
which  opened  at  every  movement,  disclosing  his  soiled 
plaid  foulard  doing  duty  for  a  collar. 

On  my  telling  him  that  I  desired  to  take  some  lessons 
of  him,  he  asked  me  to  sing  something  for  him.  Seeing 
the  music  of  Duprato's  'Tl  etait  nuit  deja,"  I  proposed 
singing  that,  and  he  sat  down  at  the  pedal-less  piano 
to  accompany  me.  When  I  arrived  at  the  phrase,  "Un 
souffle  d'air  leger  apportait  jusqu'a  nous  I'odeur  d'un 
Granger,"  he  interrupted  me.  "Repeat  that!"  he  cried. 
*T1  faut  qu'on  sente  le  souffle  d'air  et  I'odeur  de 
I'oranger."  I  said  to  myself,  ".  .  .  no  one  could 
'sentir  un  oranger'  in  this  room;  one  could  only  smell 
Delsarte's  bad  tobacco." 

He  begged  me  to  sing  something  else. 

"Will  you  accompany  Gounod's  'Medje'  for  me?"  I 
asked  him. 

"No,"  he  replied.  "I  will  listen;  you  must  accom- 
pany yourself.  There  are  certain  songs  that  cannot 
be  accompanied  by  any  one  but  the  singer.  This  is 
one  of  them!  You  feel  yourself,  don't  you,  that  it  is 
absolutely  necessary  for  you  to  clutch  something  when 

78 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

singing  this  ?  A  weak  chord  or  a  too  powerful  one  struck 
in  a  wrong  place  would  spoil  entirely  the  effect,  and 
even  the  best  accompanist  cannot  foresee  when  that 
effect  is  going  to  be  produced."  I  think  this  is  so  clever! 
"  'Voi  che  sapete'  can  be  accompanied  by  any  school- 
girl," he  continued.  "It  is  plain  sailing;  but  in  'Medje' 
the  piano  must  be  part  of  the  singer  and  breathe  with 
him."  I  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  sang.  When  I 
came  to  "Prends  cette  lame  et  plonges  la  dans  mon 
coeur,"  he  stopped  me  short,  and  pointing  to  a  horrible 
picture  on  the  wall  indicating  bloody  murder  and  ter- 
ror (No.  6),  he  cried,  "  Voila  I'expression  qu'il  faut  avoir." 
I  sang  the  phrase  over  again,  trying  to  imagine  what 
Medje's  lover  must  have  felt;  but  I  could  not  satisfy 
Delsarte.  He  said  my  voice  ought  to  tremble;  and,  in 
fact,  I  ought  to  sing  false  when  I  say,  "Ton  image  encore 
vivante  dans  mon  coeur  qui  ne  bat  plus."  "No  one," 
he  said,  "in  such  a  moment  of  emotion  could  keep  on 
the  right  note."  I  tried  again,  in  vain!  If  I  had  had 
a  dagger  in  my  hand  and  a  brigand  before  me,  I  might 
perhaps  have  been  more  successful.  However,  he  let 
it  pass ;  but  to  show  that  it  could  be  done  he  sang  it  for 
me,  and  actually  did  sing  it  false.  Curiously  enough,  it 
sounded  quite  right,  tremolo  and  all.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  he  is  a  great  artist.  One  can  see  that  Faure  and 
Coquelin  (the  actor)  have  both  profited  by  his  unique 
teaching.  He  assured  me  that  there  is  no  art  like  that 
of  making  people  believe  what  you  want  them  to.  For 
instance,  he  pretends  that  he  can  sing  ' '  II  pleut,  il  pleut, 
bergere,"  and  make  you  hear  the  patter  of  the  bergere's 
heels  on  the  wet  sod,  or  wherever  she  was  trying  to 
rentrer  ses  blancs  moutons.     He  sang  it  with  the  fullest 

79 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

conviction,  and  asked  me  what  I  thought  of  it.  I  shut 
my  eyes  and  tried  to  conjure  up  the  bergire  and  her 
heels.  My  head  began  to  whiri  with  all  this  talk,  and, 
in  taking  leave  of  my  new  master,  I  promised  him  that 
I  would  try  to  sing  false  until  the  next  lesson.  Another 
thing  he  said  was:  "Never  try  to  accompany  yourself 
when  the  accompaniment  is  difficult.  There  is  nothing 
so  painful  as  to  see  a  singer  struggling  with  tremolos  and 
arpeggios."     How  right  he  is! 

He  has  one  theory  about  the  trembling  of  the  chin. 
It  certainly  is  very  effective.  When  in  "Medje"  I  say, 
"Tu  n'as  pas  vu  mes  larmes,  tout  la  nuit  j'ai  pleure," 
Delsarte  says,  "Make  your  chin  tremble;  just  try  it 
once,"  pointing  to  a  diagram,  "and  every  one  will  be 
overcome."  I  have  tried  it  and  have  seen  the  effect. 
But  I  am  letting  you  into  all  Delsarte 's  most  innermost 
secrets. 

Paris,  July,  1865. 

Dear  M., — You  must  forgive  me  if  I  have  not  written 
lately;  but  we  have  been  on  a  visit  to  the  Duke  and 
Duchess  de  Persigny  for  the  past  week.  I  did  not  have 
time  to  do  more  than  dress  for  driving  and  drive,  dress 
for  afternoon  tea,  dress  for  dinner,  and  dine. 

The  estates  of  Chamarande  are  beautiful,  the  chateau 
itself  is  very  magnificent  and  arranged  with  the  Duchess's 
taste,  which  is  perfect  though  ultra-English. 

The  chateau  has  a  moat  around  it,  over  which  is  a 
stone  bridge  which  leads  to  the  entrance  on  the  side 
opposite  the  broad  terraces  bordered  by  cut  trees,  as 
in  Versailles.  The  park  is  very  large,  filled  with  beau- 
tiful old  trees,  and  most  artistically  laid  out. 

80 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Duke  de  Persigny  is  perfectly  delightful,  genial, 
kind,  and  certainly  the  cleverest  man  of  the  day,  with 
a  temper  which  is  temper-proof.  I  never  saw  him  out 
of  it,  and,  well  as  I  know  him,  I  have  never  seen  him 
ruffled  in  any  way,  and  sometimes  there  were  occasions, 
goodness  knows! 

The  Duchess  is  still  handsome  and  attractive;  her 
pronounced  originality  lends  her  a  peculiar  charm.  She 
has  many  admiring  friends  who  are  true  to  her,  and  I 
must  say  that  when  she  is  a  friend  she  is  a  true  one, 
and  never  fails  you.  Her  originality  frequently  leads 
her  beyond  conventionality;  for  instance,  the  other  day 
she  took  it  into  her  head  to  dine  out  of  doors.  If  she 
wanted  to  picnic  al  fresco,  why  did  she  not  choose  some 
pretty  place  in  the  park  or  in  the  woods?  But  no,  she 
had  the  usual  elaborate  dinner  served  directly  outside 
the  chateau,  and  on  the  gravel  walk.  The  servants, 
powdered  and  in  short  breeches  as  usual,  served  us  in 
their  customary  solemnity;  but  they  must  have  won- 
dered why  we  preferred  to  sit  on  the  gravel,  with  a 
draught  of  cold  air  on  our  backs,  when  we  might  have 
been  comfortably  seated  in  a  big  and  airy  room  with  a 
carpet  under  our  feet.  However,  such  was  the  wish  of 
the  chatelaine,  and  no  one  dared  say  a  word,  not  even 
the  Duke,  though  he  protested  meekly. 

Later  on  the  Duke  had  his  revenge,  for  in  the  midst 
of  our  breezy  repast  there  came  a  downpour  of  rain, 
accompanied  by  lightning  and  peals  of  thunder,  which 
necessitated  a  hasty  retreat. 

The  Duchess,  who  is  very  timid  in  thunder-storms, 
was  the  first  to  rush  into  the  house,  the  guests  following 
pell-mell,  and  our  dinner  was  finished  indoors. 

8l 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

After  our  return  to  Petit  Val  we  had  the  visit 
of  Auber's  protege,  a  young  man  called  Massenet. 
One  day,  in  Paris,  two  months  ago,  Auber  said  to 
me: 

"I  am  very  much  interested  in  a  former  pupil  of  the 
Conservatoire  who  took  the  Grand- Prix  de  Rome,  and 
has  just  come  back  from  his  four  years'  musical  studies 
in  Rome.  As  he  is  more  or  less  a  stranger  in  Paris,  I 
should  be  very  thankful  if  you  would  interest  yourself 
for  him.  He  really  is  a  genius ;  but,  as  so  often  happens, 
geniuses  don't  have  pocket-money." 

I  answered:  "Please  tell  him  to  come  and  see  me.  I 
have  some  music  I  wish  to  have  transposed.  Do  you 
think  that  he  would  be  willing  to  do  it?" 

"Certainly;  he  would  be  glad  to  do  anything,"  was 
the  answer. 

The  next  day  a  pale  young  man  presented  himself. 
"You  are  Monsieur  Massenet?"  I  inquired. 

"Yes,  Madame,"  came  the  gentle  answer. 

Thereupon  I  gave  him  the  music,  and  I  showed  him 
to  a  quiet  little  room  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house, 
which  contained  a  piano,  writing-table,  pen  and  ink, 
etc.,  and  left  him  to  his  fate.  He  came  two  or  three 
times  before  I  heard  him  play,  and  then  it  was  only  by 
chance  that  I  passed  through  the  corridor,  and  imagine 
my  astonishment  at  hearing  the  most  divine  music 
issuing  from  the  room  where  the  young  man  was  work- 
ing.    I  rushed  in,  saying: 

"What  is  that?" 

"Nothing,"  he  answered. 

"Nothing!"  I  exclaimed.  "I  never  heard  anything 
so  exquisite.     Do  play  it  again." 

82 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"It  was  simply  something  that  passed  through  my 
head,"  he  answered. 

"Then  let  something  else  pass  through  your  head.  I 
must  hear  more,"  I  said.  Then  he  played,  and  I  sat 
and  listened  to  the  most  bewildering  and  beautiful  music 
that  I  ever  heard.  From  that  moment  there  was  no 
more  copying.  What  a  genius  he  is !  I  wish  you  coiild 
hear  him  improvise! 

We  have  invited  him  frequently,  and  when  we  are 
at  Petit  Val  he  comes  often  out  to  see  us,  and  luxuriates 
in  the  repose  and  comfort  of  our  life  here.  He  has 
already  written  some  lovely  songs  under  its  influence. 
He  composed  one  called  "I'Esclave,"  and  dedicated  it 
to  me  for  my  birthday.  He  accompanies  me  as  no  one 
has  ever  done  before. 

Auber,  who  drives  out  occasionally,  is  delighted  to 
see  that  "Our  Massenet,"  as  he  generally  calls  him,  is 
getting  color  in  his  pale  cheeks  and  his  bright  and  eager 
eyes  are  brighter  than  ever,  and  he  is  actually  getting 
fat. 

Paris,  January,  1866. 

We  have  just  returned  from  Nice  and  Cannes,  also 
from  a  very  disappointing  yachting  cruise  in  the  Medi- 
terranean, which  proved  to  be  a  complete  fiasco.  I 
must  tell  you  about  it.  Lord  Albert  Gower  had  in- 
vited us  to  go  to  Spezia  on  his  beautiful  yacht.  From 
there  we  were  to  go  to  Florence,  and  later  make  a  little 
trip  in  Italy.  We  had  all  been  asked  to  a  dinner  at  the 
Duke  de  Vallombrosa's  villa  at  Cannes,  and  some  of  us 
to  spend  the  night  there. 

The  evening  before  we  started  there  was  a  large  din- 

83 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ner  at  the  prefect's  given  in  honor  of  the  Austrian  Am- 
bassador, Prince  Metternich,  who  had  come  on  an  official 
visit  concerning  an  archduke,  at  which  Lord  Albert  pro- 
posed that  we  should  take  Cannes  en  route,  spend  the 
night  there,  and  start  the  next  day  for  Spezia. 

I  thought  that  I  was  going  to  have  a  beautiful  time 
when  we  left  Nice.  The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  and 
there  was  every  prospect  of  a  good  breeze,  and  I  settled 
down  on  deck  with  books  and  work,  thinking  how  delight- 
ful it  was  all  going  to  be,  and  how  pleasant  it  was  to 
get  away  from  the  fatiguing  gaieties  of  Nice,  where 
there  had  been  a  perfect  avalanche  of  dinners,  balls,  and 
theater-parties  which  even  surpassed  Paris. 

Well!  A  dead  calm  set  in  about  an  hour  after  we 
had  started,  and  only  a  vestige  of  a  breeze  wafted  us 
along  on  our  way,  and  we  never  arrived  at  Cannes  till 
seven  o'clock,  just  in  time  to  disembark,  jump  into  a 
carriage,  and  reach  the  Duke  de  Vallombrosa's  villa. 
I  thought  that  I  was  very  expeditious  over  my  toilette, 
notwithstanding  which  I  found  myself  half  an  hour 
late  for  dinner.  Fortunately,  however,  our  hosts  were 
lenient  and  accepted  my  excuses. 

Lord  and  Lady  Brougham,  Duke  de  Croy,  and  many 
others  were  there.  And  who  else  do  you  think?  No 
less  a  personage  than  Jenny  Lind!  You  may  imagine 
my  delight  at  seeing  her — "the  Goddess  of  Song,"  the 
idol  of  my  youth — about  whom  still  hung  a  halo. 

She  is  neither  handsome  nor  distinguished-looking; 
in  fact,  quite  the  contrary:  plain  features,  a  pert  nose, 
sallow  skin,  and  very  yellow  hair.  However,  when  she 
smiled,  which  was  not  often,  her  face  became  almost 
handsome. 

84 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

After  dinner  the  Duchess  de  Vallombrosa  begged  her 
to  sing;  but  she  flatly  refused,  and  there  was  no  other 
music,  thank  heaven!  I  was  presented  to  her,  in  spite 
of  her  too  evident  disHke  for  new  acquaintances;  but 
when  she  heard  that  I  sang  she  seemed  more  amiable 
and  interested.  She  even  asked  me  to  come  to  see  her 
the  next  day.  "That  is,"  she  said,  "if  you  can  climb 
my  hill."  I  told  her  that  I  was  sure  I  could  climb  her 
hill,  and  would,  even  if  I  had  to  climb  on  all  fours. 

After  having  been  on  the  glaring  Mediterranean  all 
day  I  could  hardly  keep  my  eyes  open,  and  retired  be- 
fore the  last  carriage  had  driven  away.  The  next  morning 
I  looked  out  of  my  window  and  saw  our  yacht  dancing 
on  the  sparkling  waves.  We  expected  to  leave  for 
Spezia  that  afternoon. 

At  eleven  o'clock,  the  hour  appointed,  I  commenced 
my  pilgrimage  to  the  hill  of  the  "Swedish  nightingale," 
with  what  emotion,  I  can  hardly  tell  you!  I  left  the 
carriage  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  and  climbed  and  climbed, 
until  I  reached  the  heaven  where  the  angel  lived.  It 
was  the  reverse  of  Jacob's  dream.  His  angel  climbed 
down  to  him,  whereas  I  had  to  climb  up  to  mine.  She 
always  used  a  donkey  for  her  climbings. 

She  received  me  very  cordially,  saying,  "I  welcome 
you  to  my  bicoque,"  and  led  me  through  a  few  badly 
furnished  rooms  with  hay-stuffed  sofas  and  hard,  un- 
compromising chairs  and  queer-looking  tables  painted 
in  red  and  green  out  on  to  the  veranda,  which  com- 
manded a  magnificent  view  over  the  sea  and  the  Esterel 
Mountains. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her!  She  was  dressed 
in  a  white  brocade  trimmed  with  a  piece  of  red  silk 
7  85 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

around  the  bottom,  a  red,  blousy  waist  covered  with 
gold  beads  sewed  fantastically  over  it,  perhaps  odds  and 
ends  of  old  finery,  and  gold  shoes! 

Just  fancy,  at  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning!  We 
talked  music.  She  hated  Verdi  and  all  he  had  made; 
she  hated  Rossini  and  all  he  had  made;  she  hated  the 
French;  she  hated  the  Americans;  she  abhorred  the 
very  name  of  Bamum,  who,  she  said,  "exhibited  me 
just  as  he  did  the  big  giant  or  any  other  of  his  mon- 
strosities." 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  must  not  forget  how  you  were 
idolized  and  appreciated  in  America.  Even  as  a  child 
I  can  remember  how  they  worshiped  Jenny  Lind." 

"Worshiped  or  not,"  she  answered,  sharply,  "I  was 
nothing  more  than  a  show  in  a  showman's  hands;  I 
can  never  forget  that." 

We  sat  on  her  veranda,  and  she  told  me  all  about 
her  early  life  and  her  musical  career.  She  said  she  was 
bom  in  1820,  and  when  only  ten  years  old  she  used  to 
sing  in  cafes  in  Stockholm.  At  seventeen  she  sang 
' '  Alice  "  in  "  Robert-le-Diable ' ' !  Then  we  talked  of  our 
mutual  teacher,  dear  Garcia,  of  whom  she  took  lessons 
in  1 84 1  and  whom,  for  a  wonder,  she  liked. 

At  the  Rhein-fest  given  for  Queen  Victoria  in  1844 
she  said  that  she  had  had  a  great  success,  and  that  Queen 
Victoria  had  always  been  a  friend  to  her  since  that  time. 

I  asked  her  when  she  first  sang  in  London. 

"I  think  it  was  in  1847,  or  thereabouts,"  she  replied. 
"Then  I  went  to  Paris;  but  I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of 
that  horrid  place." 

"Is  Paris  such  a  horrid  place?"  I  asked.  "I  wish 
you  would  come  while  I  am  there." 

86 


JENNY   LIND 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Never,  never!"  she  cried.  "They  treated  me  so 
abominably  I  vowed  that  I  would  never  set  foot  in 
Paris  again,  and  although  they  have  offered  me  every 
possible  inducement  I  have  always  refused." 

"What  a  pity!"  I  exclaimed.  "Would  you  not  like 
to  see  the  Exposition  in  Paris  next  year?  I  think  it 
might  interest  you." 

"Yes,  that  might  interest  me;   but  Paris!   Paris!" 

"Do  you  know  Auber?"  I  asked. 

"Auber.  No,  I  have  always  wanted  to  know  him, 
but  have  never  had  an  opportunity." 

"If  you  will  come  to  Paris,  I  will  arrange  that  you 
meet  him." 

"I  will!  I  will!  And  then  I  will  sing  for  him!"  she 
said,  with  almost  girlish  glee. 

How  delighted  I  was  to  think  that  I  might  be  the 
medium  to  bring  them  together. 

She  asked  me  a  great  many  questions  about  my 
singing.  Suddenly  she  said,  "Make  a  trill  for 
me." 

I  looked  about  for  a  piano  to  give  me  a  note  to  start 
on.  But  a  piano  was  evidently  the  thing  where  the 
Goldschmidts  had  drawn  the  line.  I  made  as  good  a 
trill  as  I  could  without  one. 

"Very  good!"  said  she,  nodding  her  head  approvingly. 
"I  learned  my  trill  this  way."  And  she  made  a  trill  for 
me,  accentuating  the  upper  note. 

Pointing  her  finger  at  me,  she  said,  "You  try  it." 

I  tried  it.  Unless  one  has  learned  to  trill  so  it  is 
very  difficult  to  do;   but  I  managed  it  somehow. 

Then  she  said,  in  her  abrupt  way,  "What  vocalizes 
do  you  sing?" 

87 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  replied  that  I  had  arranged  Chopin's  waltz  in  five 
flats  as  a  vocalize. 

"In  the  original  key?"  she  asked.  "I  know  it  well. 
It  is  one  of  Goldschmidt's  favorite  concert  pieces." 

"Not  in  the  original  key.  I  have  transposed  it  two 
notes  lower,  and  put  some  sort  of  words  to  it.  I  also 
sing  as  a  vocalize  the  first  sixteen  bars  of  the  overture 
of  Mendelssohn's  'Midsummer  Night's  Dream.'" 

"I  don't  think  that  I  could  do  that,"  she  said. 

"I  am  sure  you  could,"  I  answered,  upon  which  she 
tried  it.  She  sang  it  slowly  but  perfectly,  shutting  her 
eyes  as  if  feeling  her  way  cautiously,  for  the  intonations 
are  very  difficult. 

Twelve  o'clock  sounded  from  a  cuckoo-clock  in  the 
next  room,  and  I  felt  that  my  visit,  fascinating  as  my 
angel  was,  must  come  to  an  end.  I  left  her  still  standing 
on  the  veranda  in  her  white  brocade,  and  as  I  walked 
off  she  made  the  trill  as  an  adieu. 

I  reached  the  villa  in  time  for  breakfast,  after  which 
our  hosts  drove  us  down  to  the  pier,  where  the  little 
rowboat  was  waiting  to  take  us  out  to  the  yacht. 

I  said  that  our  trip  was  a  failure !  It  was  more  than 
a  failure.  It  meant  a  gale,  thunder,  lightning,  and  sud- 
den death,  and  everything  in  the  Litany,  and  we  finished 
ignominiously  by  taking  refuge  in  the  first  port  we  could 
reach,  and  going  on  to  our  destination  by  train. 

Paris,  February  12,  1866. 

Dear  Aunty, — ^There  has  been  a  regular  deluge  of 
balls  in  Paris  this  winter.  The  Minister  of  Marine  gave 
a  gorgeous  one,  the  clou  of  which  was  the  entrance  at 

88 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

midnight  precisely  of  Les  Quatres  Continents,  being 
four  long  cortdges  representing  Europe,  America,  Africa, 
and   Asia. 

I  was  quite  provoked  that  they  did  not  ask  me  to 
be  in  the  American  cortege.  I  should  have  loved  to 
have  been  an  Indian  squaw,  except  that  a  blanket  is  a 
rather  warm  toilette  de  hal.  They  wanted  me  to  take  a 
costume  of  a  Spanish  lady  in  the  cortege  of  Europe,  but 
I  refused;  if  I  could  not  be  in  the  American  I  did  not 
want  to  be  in  any  of  the  others. 

Taking  part  in  the  cortege  meant  waiting  till  mid- 
night before  appearing,  and  then,  being  in  it,  you  did 
not  see  it.  I  had  a  banal  and  not  a  correct  costume  of 
an  Amazone  Louis  XIII.,  and  stayed  in  the  ballroom 
all  the  evening,  and  saw  the  procession  when  it  came  in. 
It  was  very  interesting  and  really  beautifully  arranged. 

Africa  (Mademoiselle  de  Sevres)  was  brought  in  on 
a  camel  fresh  from  the  jungle  of  the  Jardin  des  Plantes, 
and  followed  by  quantities  of  natives  of  every  variety 
of  shade,  from  sepia  to  chocolate,  as  near  to  nature  as 
they  dared  go  without  spoiling  their  beauty.  Some  of 
the  costumes  were  very  fantastic.  Ladies  dressed  in 
skirts  made  of  feathers,  and  beads  hanging  everywhere, 
copied  after  well-known  pictures,  and  especially  after 
the  costumes  of  'TAfricaine,"  of  the  Opera.  The  men 
wore  enormous  wigs  made  of  black  wool,  and  black 
tricots,  blacker  than  the  most  African  of  negroes. 

Asia  (Baronne  Erlanger)  was  standing  on  a  platform 
carried  by  menials  hidden  from  view  and  smothered 
under  tiger  and  other  skins.  She  was  poised  with  one 
foot  on  the  head  of  a  tiger,  one  hand  was  clutching  a 
date-tree,  and  the  other  hand  clinging  to  the  back  of 

89 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

a  stuffed  leopard.  It  must  have  been  difficult  for  her 
to  keep  her  balance;  her  platform  seemed  very  shaky, 
and  the  date-tree  waved  as  if  it  had  been  in  a  tornado. 
The  natives  who  followed  her  were  more  beaded  and 
feathery  and  multicolored  than  the  Africans,  otherwise 
they  looked  much  alike. 

America  was  represented  by  a  pretty  girl  (a  Miss 
Carter,  of  Boston).  She  was  brought  in  reclining  in  a 
hammock  of  gay  colors.  The  American  natives  were 
not  of  the  kind  one  meets  in  New  York  and  Boston; 
they  were  mostly  the  type  taken  from  the  most  popular 
books.  There  was  the  sedate  Puritan  from  Long- 
fellow's "Evangeline";  the  red  Indians  from  Cooper's 
books;  Hiawatha  and  Pocahontas,  of  course;  and  the 
type  most  beloved  in  the  European  market,  that  of  the 
plantation  tyrant  who  drags  his  victim  to  the  whipping- 
post with  pointed  stakes  and  cudgels,  a  la  Oncle  Tom, 
and  lastly  the  Mexican  types  with  slouched  hats  and 
picturesque  shirts  and  leather  leggings,  pistols  bulging 
from  their  belts. 

Europe  (Madame  d'Arjuson)  was  seated  in  a  Roman 
chair,  and  looked  very  comfortable,  in  comparison  with 
the  other  Continents;  the  platform  on  which  she  sat 
was  loaded  with  flowers  and  dragged  in  on  wheels.  All 
the  national  costumes  of  Europe  were  extremely  pretty 
and  varied.  The  German  peasants  in  great  variety, 
the  Italian  ciociara,  the  Spanish  toreador,  and  the  Dutch 
fisherwoman  with  her  wooden  shoes — all  were  complete. 

Worth  and  Bobergh  had  not  slept  for  nights,  thinking 
out  the  different  costumes  and  worrying  over  the  de- 
tails. Worth  had  the  most -brain  work,  and  Bobergh 
was  the  sleepy  partner. 

90 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  cotillon  was  superb;  it  commenced  at  two 
o'clock  and  finished  at  the  break  of  day.  The  favors 
were  of  every  nationality,  imported  from  all  over  the 
world,  and  tied  up  with  every  imaginable  national  color. 
I  danced  with  the  Count  Vogiie,  who  is  by  far  the  best 
dancer  in  Paris.  He  got  masses  of  favors  and  gave 
them  all  to  me,  and  I  also  received  a  great  quantity; 
so  that  when  I  went  to  the  carriage  I  almost  needed  a 
dray  to  carry  them. 

Paris,  March,  iS66. 

Dear  M., — I  think  of  your  sitting  in  your  Cambridge 
home  and  reading  this  account  of  the  frivolities  of  your 
daughter.  While  the  scene  of  last  night  is  just  in  my 
mind,  I  will  tell  you  about  it. 

Yesterday  was  Count  Pourtales's  birthday,  and  Prince 
Metternich  thought  out  a  wonderful  scheme  for  a  sur- 
prise for  Count  Pourtales  and  the  rest  of  us.  Princess 
Metternich  and  Countess  Pourtales  were  the  only  ones 
taken  into  his  confidence. 

There  was  a  dinner  at  the  Pourtales'  in  honor  of  the 
occasion,  and  the  guests  were  Baron  Alphonse  Roth- 
schild, Count  and  Countess  Moltke,  Prince  Sagan,  the 
Duke  de  Croy,  and  ourselves. 

On  arriving  at  seven  o'clock  we  were  ushered  into  the 
salon,  and  later  went  in  to  dinner.  All  the  lights  were 
placed  on  the  table,  leaving  the  rest  of  the  room  in  dark- 
ness. The  servants  seemed  to  me  principally  butlers  with 
the  traditional  side- whiskers,  or  chasseurs  with  beards 
or  mustaches.  I  thought  that  they  might  be  extra 
servants  brought  in  for  the  occasion. 

The  first  course  was  served.  A  little  awkward  spilling 
of  soup  on  the  table-cloth  was  not  remarked  upon.     The 

91 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

fish  came  on  with  its  sauce.  A  startled  cry  came  from 
a  lady  on  receiving  some  drops  of  it  on  her  bare  neck, 
to  which  no  one  paid  any  particular  attention.  Then, 
a  few  moments  later,  some  wine  was  carelessly  spilled 
on  one  of  the  gentlemen's  heads.  These  things  can  so 
easily  happen,  no  one  said  anything. 

The  filet  was  handed  to  me,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  sauce-dish  was  uncomfortably  near  my  neck,  and 
directly  under  my  nose.  This  was  too  nonchalant,  and 
my  surprise  was  still  greater  when  the  servant,  in  an 
unnatural  and  gruff  voice,  said,  "Do  you  want  any  of 
this  stuff?"  I  looked  up  at  the  man,  and  recognized 
a  twinkle  in  a  familiar  eye,  and  as  the  twinkle  was  ac- 
centuated by  a  powerful  wink  I  began  to  understand 
and  held  my  tongue. 

Things  might  have  gone  on  longer  if  one  of  the  waiters 
had  not  been  too  bold,  and  on  serving  Countess  Moltke, 
a  very  pretty  American  lady  married  to  a  Dane,  pushed 
her  arm  a  little  roughly,  and  in  an  obviously  disguised 
voice  said,  "Better  take  some  of  this,  you  won't  get 
another  chance." 

She  called  out  in  an  indignant  voice,  "Did  you  ever 
hear  the  like?"  Count  Pourtales  seenied  dazed,  while 
his  wife  looked  as  unconcerned  as  if  there  was  nothing 
unusual.  Then  the  insolent  waiters  began  talking  across 
the  table  to  each  other.  One  said,  "Don't  you  see  that 
lady  with  the  rose  has  not  got  any  salad?"  The  other 
answered,  "Attend  to  your  own  affairs."  Count  Pour- 
tales,  crimson  with  mortification,  was  about  to  get  up 
and  apologize,  when  he  was  suddenly  pulled  back  into 
his  seat,  and  the  absurd  waiters  began  throwing  pellets 
of  bread  at  him. 

92 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Imagine  his  feelings!  To  be  treated  in  this  way  in 
one's  own  house,  by  one's  own  servants !  Every  one  of 
them  must  have  suddenly  gone  crazy,  or  else  they  were 
drunk.  For  a  moment  consternation  was  depicted  on 
all  the  countenances;  we  thought  the  end  of  the  world 
had  come. 

When  things  had  gone  so  far,  Prince  Mettemich  stood 
up  and  made  a  pretty  little  speech  for  the  host,  and  we 
all  drank  his  health,  and  the  waiters  all  took  off  their 
wigs  and  false  beards  and  waved  them  in  the  air. 

Six  of  the  most  fashionable  young  gentlemen  of  Paris 
had  been  serving  us !  The  Pourtales'  own  servants,  who 
had  kept  aloof,  now  came  in,  and  the  ci-devant  waiters 
drew  up  chairs  between  those  at  the  table,  and  the  dinner 
finished  amidst  great  hilarity. 

Paris,  August,  1866. 

Dear  M., — We  were  invited  to  go  out  to  Fontaine- 
bleau  yesterday  for  dinner.  We  found  it  a  very  hot 
ride  from  Paris,  and  really  suffered  in  the  crowded 
train.  When  we  arrived  at  the  station  we  found  a 
coupe  from  the  Imperial  stables  waiting  for  us,  and  an 
extra  carriage  for  the  maid,  the  valet,  and  the  trunk, 
which  contained  our  change  of  dress  for  dinner,  I 
wished  that  the  coupe  had  been  an  open  carriage.  I 
love  to  drive  through  those  lovely  avenues  in  the  park. 
Princess  Mettemich  suggested  that  we  should  take  some 
green  corn  with  us,  as  the  Empress  had  expressed  the 
wish  to  taste  this  American  delicacy,  and  I  took  some 
from  Petit  Val. 

On  reaching  the  palace  we  were  met  by  the  Vicomte 
Walsh,  who  led  the  way  to  the  apartment  of  the  Baroness 

93 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

de  Pierres,  one  of  the  dames  d'honneur  of  the  Empress 
(an  American  lady,  formerly  Miss  Thorne,  of  New  York), 
who  was  expecting  us. 

You  may  imagine  my  astonishment  at  seeing  her 
smoking — what  do  you  think?  Nothing  less  than  a 
real  common  clay  pipe,  and  you  may  imagine  her 
surprise  at  seeing  me,  followed  by  my  servant,  who 
carried  a  large  basket  containing  the  com.  I  told  her 
about  it,  and  that  I  had  brought  some  at  the  instigation 
of  the  Princess  Mettemich,  in  order  that  the  Empress 
could  try  it.  She  seemed  to  be  delighted  at  the  idea, 
and  exclaimed,  "We  must  get  hold  of  the  chef  at  once 
and  tell  him  how  to  cook  it."  She  rang  her  bell  and 
gave  the  order.  Promptly  Monsieur  Jean  appeared  in 
his  fresh  white  apron  and  immaculate  jacket  and 
white  couvre-chef.  Baroness  de  Pierres  and  I  surpassed 
ourselves  in  giving  contradictory  directions  as  to  the 
cooking  of  it.  She  thought  it  ought  to  be  boiled  a  long 
time,  while  I  maintained  that  it  required  very  little 
time. 

"You  must  leave  the  silk  on,"  said  she. 

"Has  it  got  silk?"  asked  the  bewildered  chef. 

I  was  of  the  opinion  that  the  husks  shoiild  be  taken 
off.  "By  no  means!"  she  declared,  and  explained  that 
in  America  the  corn  was  always  served  in  the  husk. 

The  chef,  trying  to  analyze  this  unusual  article  of 
food,  lifted  one  of  the  ears  from  the  basket  and  exam- 
ined it. 

"En  robe  de  chambre,  alors,  Madame!"  said  he,  and 
looked  dismayed  at  these  complications. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "just  like  a  potato — en  robe  de 
chambre.'' 

94 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

We  coT-ild  hear  him  as  he  left  the  room,  followed  by 
the  basket,  muttering  to  himself,  "Sole!  robe  de  cham- 
bre!  Soie!  robe  de  chambre!"  in  his  most  satirical  tone. 
I  began  to  feel  a  little  nervous  about  it  myself,  and 
wondered  if  for  this  broth  there  had  not  been  too  many 
cooks. 

We  went  out  before  dinner  to  see  the  famous  carp; 
I  looked  in  vain  for  the  one  with  the  ring  in  its  nose. 

At  dinner,  besides  the  Household,  were  the  Princess 
Mathilde,  Monsieur  OUivier,  Monsieur  Perriere,  the 
Duke  de  Persigny,  Baron  Haussmann,  and  several 
statesmen. 

The  corn  came  in  due  time  served  as  legume. 

I  was  mortified  when  I  saw  it  appear,  brought  in  on 
eight  enormous  silver  platters,  four  ears  on  each.  It 
looked  pitiful!  Silk,  robe  de  chambre  and  all,  steaming 
like  a  steam-engine.  Every  one  looked  aghast,  and  no 
one  dared  to  touch  it ;  and  when  I  wanted  to  show  them 
how  it  was  eaten  in  its  native  land  they  screamed  with 
laughter.  Baron  Haussmann  asked  me  if  the  piece  I 
was  playing  (he  meant  on  the  flute)  was  in  la-bemolf 

I  looked  to  the  Baroness  de  Pierres  for  support;  but, 
alas!  her  eyes  refused  to  meet  mine  and  were  fixed  on 
her  plate. 

I  tried  to  make  the  corn  less  objectionable  by  un- 
wrapping the  cobs  and  cutting  off  the  com.  Then  I 
added  butter  and  salt,  and  it  was  passed  about;  first, 
of  course,  to  the  Emperor,  who  liked  it  very  much; 
but  the  Empress  pushed  her  plate  aside  with  a  grimace, 
saying,  "I  don't  like  it;  it  smells  like  a  baby's  flannels." 

The  Emperor,  seeing  the  crushed  look  on  my  face, 
raised  his  glass  and  said,  with  a  kind  glance  at  me, 

95 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Here's  to  the  American  corn!"  I  reproached  the 
Princess  Metternich  for  having  suggested  my  taking  it 
there. 

CoMPiEGNE,  November  22,  1866. 

Dear  A., — You  know  it  has  always  been  my  wish  to 
see  the  life  at  Compiegne,  and  behold,  here  I  am! 

We  received  the  invitation  twelve  days  ago.  It 
reads  thus: 

Maison  Palais  des  Tuileries,  le  10  Novemhre  1866. 

DE  l'Empereur 
Premier  Chamhellan 

Monsieur, 

Par  ordre  de  l'Empereur,  j'ai  I'honneur  de  vous  prevenir  que  vous 
^tes  invit6,  ainsi  que  Madame  Charles  Moulton,  k  passer  huit  jours 
au  Palais  de  Compiegne,  du  22  au  29  Novembre. 

Des  voitures  de  la  Cour  vous  attendront  le  22,  ^  Tarriv^e  k  Com- 
piegne du  train  partant  de  Paris  k  2  heures  }4,  pour  vous  conduire 
au  Palais. 

Agreez,  Monsieur,  I'assurance  de  ma  consideration  tr^s  distinguee. 

Le  Premier  Chamhellan, 
Monsieur,  V*^^  de  Laferri^re. 

Madame  Charles  Moulton. 

This  gave  me  plenty  of  time  to  order  all  my  dresses, 
wraps,  and  everything  else  that  I  needed  for  this  visit 
of  a  week  to  royalty. 

I  was  obliged  to  have  about  twenty  dresses,  eight 
day  costumes  (counting  my  traveling  suit),  the  green 
cloth  dress  for  the  hunt,  which  I  was  told  was  abso- 
lutely necessary,  seven  ball  dresses,  five  gowns  for  tea. 
Such  a  quantity  of  boxes  and  bundles  arrived  at  the 
house  in  Paris  that  Mademoiselle  Wissembourg  was  in 
a  blue  fidget,  fussing  about,  boring  me  with  silly,  un- 

96 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

necessary  suggestions,  and  asking  so  many  useless 
questions  that  I  wished  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  Red 
Sea. 

A  professional  packer  came  to  pack  our  trunks,  of 

which  I  had  seven  and  C had  two;   the  maid  and 

the  valet  each  had  one,  making,  altogether,  quite  a  for- 
midable pile  of  luggage.  As  we  saw  it  on  the  wagon 
driven  from  the  house,  it  seemed  an  absurdly  large 
amount  for  only  a  week's  visit. 

We  arrived  at  the  St.  Lazare  Station  at  2.30,  as  in- 
dicated on  the  invitation. 

We  found  the  Vicomte  Walsh  (the  Chamberlain  of 
the  Emperor)  waiting  to  show  the  guests  where  the 
train  was.  It  would  have  been  rather  difficult  not  to 
have  seen  it,  as  it  was  the  only  one  in  the  station,  and 
was  marked  "Extra  and  Imperial." 

There  were  several  large  salon  carriages  with  large, 
comfortable  fauteuils,  and  some  tables  covered  with 
newspapers  and  journaux  illustres  to  beguile  the  time. 
It  would  take  too  much  time  to  tell  you  the  names 
of  all  the  people  I  recognized  at  the  station;  but  in  the 
carriage  with  us  were  the  Duke  and  Duchess  Feman 
Nuiiez,  Madame  de  Bourgogne  (whose  husband  is 
Equerry  of  the  Emperor),  the  two  Princes  Murat, 
Joachim  and  Achille,  Monsieur  Davilliers,  Count  Golz 
(the  German  Ambassador),  Baron  Haussmann  and  his 
daughter,  and  Mr.  de  Radowitz  of  the  German  em- 
bassy, who  immediately  stretched  himself  out  con- 
tentedly in  a  comfortable  arm-chair  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

I  should  say  there  were  about  fifty  or  sixty  guests. 

We  actually  flew  over  land  and  dale.  I  never 
traveled  so  fast  in  all  my  life;    but  then  I  had  never 

97 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

been  in  an  Imperial  train  before.  We  did  not  stop 
until  we  reached  the  station  of  Compiegne. 

I  think  the  whole  twelve  thousand  inhabitants  of 
Compiegne  were  gathered  there  to  stare  at  us,  and  they 
did  stare  persistently,  until  we  had  mounted  the  many 
equipages  waiting  for  us  and  had  driven  away. 

It  certainly  must  have  been  very  entertaining  for  them 
to  see  the  long  procession  of  carriages,  the  hundreds  of 
trunks,  the  flurrying  maids,  and  the  self-important 
valets. 

There  were  two  landaus :  one  for  the  Metternichs  and 
one  for  the  German  Ambassador. 

The  chars-a-bancs,  of  which  there  must  have  been 
at  least  ten,  were  dark  green  outlined  with  red,  each 
with  four  prancing  horses  whose  tails,  jauntily  braided 
with  red  cords,  were  tied  to  the  saddles. 

Each  carriage  had  two  postilions,  who  looked  very 
trim  in  their  short  velvet  jackets  embroidered  with 
gold  and  covered  with  endless  buttons.  They  wore 
white  breeches,  long  top-boots,  black-velvet  caps  over 
their  white  wigs,  and  their  little  pigtails,  tied  with  a 
black  bow,  hung  down  their  backs,  flapping  up  and 
down  as  they  galloped. 

The  Princess  Metternich  had  fourteen  trunks  and  two 
maids;  the  Prince  had  his  private  secretary  and  valet, 
and  a  goodly  number  of  trunks.  This  will  give  you  a 
vague  idea  of  the  amount  of  baggage  which  had  to  be 
transported  in  the  Jourgons. 

Don't  you  think  we  must  have  made  a  very  imposing 
spectacle,  as  we  rattled  through  the  quiet  town  of 
Compiegne,  over  its  old  stone  pavement,  the  postilions 
blowing  their  horns,  cracking  their  whips,  the  horses 

98 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

galloping  full  speed,  the  chars-a-hancs  filled  with  hand- 
somely dressed  ladies,  and  after  this  long  procession 
came  the  maids  and  the  valets  and  mountainous  piles 
of  baggage? 

When  we  entered  the  grande  cour  (inclosure),  the 
sentinels  grasped  their  guns  and  saluted,  as  we  passed 
by  them,  before  we  pulled  up  in  front  of  the  grand 
staircase  of  the  chateau,  where  an  army  of  lackeys  were 
waiting  to  help  us  alight. 

The  Grand  Chamberlain  received  -us  at  the  head  of 
the  stairs  with  pleasant  cordiality  and  waved  us  toward 
a  huissier,  who,  dressed  in  a  black  livery  with  heavy 
chains  around  his  neck,  looked  very  important.  He, 
in  his  turn,  passed  us  on  to  the  particular  valet  allotted 
to  us,  who  pompously  and  with  great  dignity  showed 
us  the  way  to  our  apartments. 

Our  names  were  on  the  doors,  and  we  entered  the 
brilliantly  lighted  rooms,  which,  after  our  journey, 
seemed  most  welcome  with  their  bright  fires  and  cheer- 
ful aspect. 

Tea  and  chocolate  were  on  the  table  waiting  us,  and 
I  regaled  myself  while  the  soldiers  (who  seem  to  be  the 
men-of-all-work  here)  brought  in  the  trunks  and  the 
maid  and  valet  were  unpacking. 

I  must  describe  our  rooms.  We  have  a  large  salon, 
two  bedrooms,  two  servants'  rooms,  and  an  ante- 
chamber. In  the  salon  there  are  two  long  windows 
which  reach  to  the  floor  and  overlook  the  park.  The 
walls  are  paneled  with  pink  and  mauve  brocade.  The 
covering  of  the  furniture  and  the  curtains  are  of  the 
same  stuff. 

My  bedroom  is  furnished  in  white  and  green  with  a 

99 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

delightful  chaise-longue  and  large  fauteuils,  which  to  me 
are  more  inviting  than  the  stiff  Empire  style  of  the 
salon. 

I  made  my  toilette  in  a  maze  of  excitement ;  my  maid 
was  confused  and  agitated,  and  I  thought  I  should 
never  be  ready.  I  think  you  will  be  interested  to  hear 
what  I  wore  to-night.  It  was  light-green  tulle,  em- 
broidered in  silver,  the  waist  trimmed  with  silver  fringe. 
If  one  could  see  the  waistband,  one  would  read  Worth 
in  big  letters.  I  thought  it  was  best  to  make  a  good 
impression  at  the  start,  so  I  put  on  my  prettiest  gown. 

On  leaving  our  apartment,  a  little  before  seven,  we 
found  the  lackey  waiting  to  show  us  the  way  to  the 
Grande  Salle  des  Fetes,  and  we  followed  his  plump  white 
calves  through  the  long  corridors,  arriving  at  last  at 
the  salon  where  the  company  was  to  assemble. 

Here  we  found  more  white  calves  belonging  to  the 
gorgeous  liveries  and  the  powdered  heads  of  the  lackeys, 
who  stood  there  to  open  the  doors  for  all  comers.  We 
were  not  the  last,  but  of  the  latest,  to  arrive. 

The  salon  seemed  immense  to  me.  On  one  side  the 
windows  (or  rather  the  doors)  opened  on  to  the  terrace; 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  walls,  between  the  pillars, 
were  mirrors  resting  on  gilded  consoles.  At  one  end  of 
the  room  was  the  statue  of  Lcctitia  Bonaparte  {Madame 
Mire),  and  at  the  other  end  was  one  of  Napoleon  I. 
Banquettes  and  tabourets  of  Gobelins  tapestry  stood 
against  the  walls.  The  ceiling  is  a  chef-d'oeuvre  of 
Girodet — style  Empire. 

The  Vicomte  de  Laf erriere  and  the  Duchesse  de 
Bassano,  the  grande  maitresse,  came  forward  to  receive 
the  guests. 

lOO 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

My  first  feeling,  when  I  entered  the  room,  was  that 
I  knew  no  one  in  this  numerous  assemblage.  There 
must  have  been  a  hundred  people  at  least ;  but  gradual- 
ly the  faces  of  my  acquaintances  loomed  one  by  one  out 
of  the  mist,  and  among  them  I  recognized  the  lovely 
Marquise  de  Gallifet,  who  kindly  beckoned  me  to  come 
and  stand  by  her,  for  which  I  felt  very  grateful. 

The  chamberlains  —  there  were  many  of  them — 
bustled  about,  constantly  referring  to  some  papers 
which  they  had  in  their  hands,  in  order  to  tell  each  gen- 
tleman which  lady  he  was  to  take  in  to  dinner. 

The  Grand  Chamberlain  glanced  round  the  room  with 
an  all-comprehensive  look,  and  seemed  intuitively  to 
know  when  we  were  all  present.  He  then  disappeared 
into  his  Majesty's  private  salon. 

There  was  an  ominous  hush,  a  flutter  of  agitation, 
a  stiff  attitude  of  expectancy,  the  guests  arranging  them- 
selves according  to  their  own  consciousness  of  their 
rank;  and  presently  the  doors  of  the  salon  were  quietly 
opened  and  their  Majesties  entered.  The  gentlemen 
bowed  reverentially;  the  ladies  courtesied  very  low, 
and  the  sovereigns,  responding  with  a  gracious  inclina- 
tion of  the  head,  advanced  toward  us. 

The  Empress  turned  to  the  ladies,  the  Emperor  to 
the  gentlemen,  speaking  a  word  of  welcome  to  as  many 
of  the  guests  as  the  time  allowed.  Fifty  or  sixty  bon 
soirs  and  charme  de  vous  voir's  occupy  some  time;  but 
their  Majesties  kept  their  eyes  on  the  Grand  Marechal, 
and  he  kept  his  eye  on  the  clock. 

The  Empress  looked  lovely.     She  wore  a  beautiful 
gown,  a  white  -  spangled  tulle,  with  a  superb  tiara  of 
diamonds,  and  on  her  neck  a  collier  of  huge  pearls. 
8  loi 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Emperor  was  in  white  culottes  courtcs,  white- 
silk  stockings  and  low  shoes,  as  were  the  rest  of  the 
gentlemen.  He  wore  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion  d'hon- 
neur,  and  on  his  left  breast  the  star  of  the  same. 

The  Grand  Marechal,  waiting  his  opportunity,  ap- 
proached his  Majesty,  who  went  up  to  the  Empress  and 
gave  her  his  arm.  The  Grand  Marechal  then  led  the 
way  slowly  and  with  due  stateliness  to  the  banqueting 
hall. 

The  gentlemen  offered  their  arms  to  their  respective 
ladies,  and  we  marched  in  procession  through  the  long 
gallery,  trying  to  prevent  ourselves  from  slipping  on 
the  waxed  floor,  and  passed  between  the  splendid  Cent 
Gardes,  who  lined  both  sides  of  the  entire  length  of  this 
enormous  hall.  Their  uniforms  are  magnificent  and 
dazzling;  they  wear  light-blue  coats  under  their  silver 
cuirasses,  white  breeches,  and  high,  shiny  top-boots; 
and  on  their  heads  silver  helmets,  from  which  flow  long 
manes  of  white  horsehair  that  hang  down  their  backs. 

There  the  men  stood,  motionless  as  statues,  staring 
stolidly  before  them,  without  so  much  as  a  stolen  side- 
glance  at  the  beauty  and  elegance  passing  before  their 
eyes. 

This  procession  of  ladies  glittering  with  jewels,  the 
officers  and  diplomats  in  their  splendid  uniforms  cov- 
ered with  decorations  and  gay-colored  cordons,  made  a 
sight  never  to  be  forgotten;  at  least,  /  shall  never 
forget  it. 

When  their  Majesties  entered  the  dining-room  they 
separated,  and  took  their  places  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  table,  half-way  down  its  length  and  exactly  facing 
each  other.     The  Emperor  had  Princess  Metternich  on 

I02 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

his  right  hand,  and  the  Duchess  of  Fernan  Nunez  on 
his  left.  The  Empress  had  the  Austrian  Ambassador, 
Prince  Metternich,  on  her  right,  and  the  German  Am- 
bassador, Count  Golz,  on  her  left. 

The  other  invites  were  placed  according  to  their  rank 
and  position:  all  the  gros  bonnets  were  in  their  right 
places,  you  may  be  quite  sure.  I  was  such  a  little  bonnet 
among  all  those  great  people  that  I  was  practically 
nowhere,  and  at  the  tail  end  of  everything  except  the 
members  of  the  Household  and  the  ladyless  gentlemen, 
who,  of  course,  were  below  me. 

There  must  have  been  about  one  hundred  persons 
seated  at  the  table.  I  never  saw  such  a  tremendous 
long  stretch  of  white  linen. 

The  flowers,  stiffly  arranged  at  intervals,  alternated 
with  white  epergnes  filled  with  bonbons,  and  larger  fruit- 
dishes  filled  with  the  most  delicious-looking  fruit.  All 
along  the  whole  length  of  the  table  were  placed,  at  regu- 
lar intervals,  the  groups  of  pdte  tend  re  representing  the 
Hunt.  These,  as  my  cavalier  (Count  de  Bourgogne, 
told  me,  are  made  only  at  the  Sevres  manufactory,  ex- 
pressly for  the  French  sovereigns.  They  were  designed 
in  the  time  of  Louis  XV.  by  an  artist  called  Urbain,  and 
have  been  reproduced  ever  since.  It  would  seem  as 
if  nothing  had  been  found  worthy  to  replace  them. 

The  service  de  table  was  of  white  Sevres  porcelain 
with  only  the  letter  "N"  in  gold  surmounted  by  the 
Imperial  crown;  many  of  the  courses  were  served  on 
silver  plates,  in  the  center  of  which  were  engraved  the 
arms  of  France. 

A  strip  of  red  velvet  carpet  laid  over  the  polished 
floor  surrounded  the  table.     On  the  outer  side  of  this 

103 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

carpet  were  the  chairs,  to  be  pushed  forward  as  soon 
as  people  were  ready,  to  sit  down.  The  lackeys  stood 
in  a  line  all  the  way  down  the  room,  making  a  very 
imposing  sight  in  their  red-and-white  liveries;  there 
must  have  been  forty  or  fifty  of  them  at  least.  The 
Emperor's  chasseur  always  stands  behind  his  chair  and 
serves  him,  and  him  alone,  taking  a  dish  of  each  course, 
as  it  is  brought  in,  from  the  maitre  d'hdtel.  No  one  but 
this  privileged  chasseur  can  hand  anything  in  the  way 
of  food  to  his  Majesty.  When  the  Emperor  has  served 
himself,  the  chasseur  hands  the  dish  back  to  the  maitre 
d'hotel,  who  passes  it  on  to  the  other  servants,  who  then 
serve  the  guests.  The  Empress  is  served  in  the  same 
way. 

I  suppose  this  custom  dates  back  to  the  time  of  the 
Borgias,  when,  in  order  to  save  their  own  lives,  they 
were  wilHng  to  risk  those  of  their  trusty  menials  by 
making  them  taste  the  food  before  it  was  put  on  the 
table. 

A  military  band  played  during  the  dinner.  It  was 
placed  in  a  large  circular  loggia  having  windows  open- 
ing on  to  a  courtyard,  thus  serving  two  purposes:  to 
let  in  the  air  and  let  out  the  music,  which,  fortunately, 
it  did,  otherwise  we  could  not  have  heard  ourselves 
speak. 

The  dinner  lasted  about  an  hour,  (The  Emperor 
dislikes  sitting  long  at  table.)  It  seemed  almost  im- 
possible that  so  much  eating  and  drinking  and  changing 
of  plates- — in  fact,  such  an  elaborate  repast — could  be 
got  through  within  such  a  short  time.     But  it  was! 

When  their  Majesties  had  finished  they  rose,  and  every 
one  followed  their  example.     All  the  chairs  were  drawn 

104 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

from  under  you,  tant  pis  if  you  were  in  the  act  of  eating 
a  pear  and  had  not  yet  washed  your  fingers;  but,  no 
matter,  you  had  to  skip  across  the  red  carpet  in  order 
to  let  their  Majesties  pass. 

A  rather  amusing  incident  occurred  at  dinner. '  One 
of  the  foreign  ministers,  who  is  very  vain  of  the  small- 
ness  of  his  feet,  had  donned  a  pair  of  patent-leather 
shoes  evidently  much  too  tight  for  him.  During  the 
dinner  he  relieved  his  sufferings  by  slipping  his  aching 
toes  out  of  them.  All  went  well  until  his  chair  was 
suddenly  drawn  from  underneath  him,  as  their  Majes- 
ties were  about  to  pass.  In  utter  despair  he  made  the 
most  frantic  efforts  to  recover  the  wandering  shoes 
from  under  the  table;  but,  alas!  the  naughty  things 
had  made  their  escape  far  beyond  reach  (a  little  way 
shoes  have  of  doing  when  left  to  themselves);  conse- 
quently, he  was  obliged  to  trip  across  the  red  carpet 
as  best  he  could  without  them.  The  Empress,  who 
keenly  appreciates  a  comical  situation,  had  noticed  with 
great  amusement  his  manoeuvers  and  embarrassment, 
and  (was  it  just  for  a  little  fun?)  stopped  in  passing  and 
spoke  to  him,  much  to  his  confusion,  for  it  was  impossi- 
ble to  prevent  her  from  seeing  his  little,  white  shoeless 
feet. 

On  our  returning  to  the  salon  the  magnificent  Cent 
Gardes  stood  just  as  we  had  left  them,  and  I  wondered 
if  they  had  unbent  for  a  moment  all  the  time  we  had 
been  at  dinner. 

The  cercle  began,  and  their  Majesties  circulated  about 
among  their  guests.  When  the  Empress  was  in  front 
of  me,  she  gave  me  her  hand  and  said  some  very  kind 
words  to  me.     She  noticed  I  wore  the  bracelet  she  had 

105 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

given  me  and  seemed  pleased.  I  do  not  know  if  you 
ever  saw  this  handsome  bracelet — it  is  composed  of 
large  rubies  and  diamonds  set  in  three  heavy  gold  coils. 
The  date  when  the  Empress  gave  it  to  me  and  her  name 
are  inscribed  inside.  The  Prince  Imperial  spoke  to 
every  one  he  knew.  He  has  a  very  sweet  voice,  such 
gentle  manners  and  winning  ways.  He  speaks  excel- 
lent English  and,  of  course,  several  other  languages. 

Waldteufel,  le  fabricant  de  valses,  put  himself  at 
the  piano  (an  upright  one,  standing  at  the  extreme  end 
of  the  immense  ballroom),  and  played  some  of  his 
charming  entrainante  music.  But,  though  he  played  as 
loudly  as  possible,  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  what 
sort  of  music  it  was,  the  ballroom  being  so  enormous. 
However,  it  did  not  make  much  difference,  as  there 
were  only  a  few  who  wanted  to  dance,  and  one  could 
see  that  they  were  urged  to  do  so  by  the  chamberlains. 
Waldteufel  has  an  apartment  in  the  town  of  Compiegne, 
where  he  fabricates  his  waltzes  by  day  and  comes  here 
to  play  them  by  night. 

At  ten  o'clock  their  Majesties  went  into  the  Emperor's 
private  salon  with  a  selected  few;  then  the  dancing 
became  general  and  livelier.  Tea  and  cakes  were  served 
at  eleven  o'clock,  and  their  Majesties  reentered,  con- 
versed a  few  moments,  bowed  to  every  one,  and  with- 
drew, turned  round  on  reaching  the  door,  and,  with  a 
sweeping  inclination  of  the  head,  disappeared. 

We  bade  good  night  to  our  friends  about  us  and 
withdrew,  as  did  every  one  else,  and  I,  for  one,  was  glad 
to  go  to  my  Royal  couch.     Good  night! 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Sunday,  November  2j,  1866. 

Dear  M., — When  we  came  down  this  morning  into 
the  salon  we  found  it  almost  deserted,  and  only  realized 
the  reason  why  when  we  saw  the  Empress  and  other 
ladies  holding  their  prayer-books  devoutly  in  their 
hands  returning  from  mass,  which  is  celebrated  in 
the  chapel  of  the  chateau.  They  wore  black-lace  veils 
in  place  of  hats,  the  Empress  wearing  hers  draped  in 
true  Spanish  fashion,  which  was  infinitely  becoming  to 
her,  being,  as  she  is,   "to  the  manner  born." 

We  remembered  then  that  it  was  Sunday,  and  felt 
subdued,  seeing  so  many  who  were  more  pious  than  we 
were.  In  fact,  I  felt  so  much  so  that  I  think  it  would 
have  been  impossible  for  me  to  have  laughed  during 
the  dejeuner.  Perhaps  it  was  fortunate  I  sat  next  to 
the  Duke  de  Fernan  Nuiiez,  whose  sedate  and  polished 
manners  suited  the  occasion  perfectly.  He  did  not 
encourage  any  attempt  at  gaiety.  Oh  dear,  no!  Far 
from  it!  I  felt  myself  gradually  freezing,  and  our  con- 
versation was  of  the  most  uninteresting  character  and 
dry  almost  to  parching. 

I  began  talking  to  him  about  Spain.  I  said  I  thought 
it  must  be  such  a  lovely  country,  so  full  of  romance, 
sentiment,  and  so  forth.  But  he  nipped  my  enthusiasm 
in  the  bud  by  informing  me  that  he  was  not  Spanish. 

"I   thought   you  were,"    I   murmured. 

"No;  I  am  Italian."  This  staggered  me  a  little. 
He  was  certainly  the  husband  of  the  Duchess  de  Fernan 
Nufiez,  who  was  Spanish;  why  had  he  not  the  same 
name? 

He  told  me  that  he  was  "Dei  Principi  Pio-Trivulzio," 

107 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

one  of  the  oldest  families  in  Milan,  and  that  when  he 
married  his  wife  (who  is  a  Grande  d'Espagne)  he  was 
obliged,  according  to  the  traditions  of  Spain,  to  take 
her  name  and  give  up  his  own. 

The  dejeuner  finished,  we  returned  to  the  salon,  and 
after  their  Majesties  had  talked  a  little  with  their  guests 
the  programme  for  the  afternoon,  which  was  to  be  an 
excursion  to  Pierrefonds,  was  offered  to  those  who 
wished  to  go.  We  hurried  to  our  rooms  to  put  on  our 
hats,  coats,  and  furs,  reappearing  equipped  for  the  fray. 

The  chars-d-bancs  and  the  carriages  of  their  Majesties 
were  drawn  up  on  the  garden  side  of  the  terrace.  The 
Emperor  took  Prince  Aletternich  in  his  dog-cart;  the 
Empress  drove  herself  in  her  English  phaeton,  accom- 
panied by  the  Duchess  de  Feman  Nufiez.  The  rest  of 
us  were  provided  with  big  chars-d-bancs,  each  holding 
six  or  eight  people,  and  had  four  horses  ridden  by  two 
postilions.  In  the  same  carriage  with  me  was  the 
Duchess  de  Persigny,  Count  Golz,  and  others;  and 
although  it  was  very  cold,  we  did  not  mind,  as  we  were 
well  wrapped  in  furs  and  had  plenty  of  rugs.  We  en- 
joyed intensely  the  beautiful  drive  through  the  forest 
of  Compiegne.  Monsieur  Davilliers  told  me  that  the 
forest  contains  about  fifteen  thousand  hectares.  I 
should  think  so,  judging  from  the  endless  roads  and 
cross-roads,  the  interminable  avenues  and  wonderful 
vistas.  There  were  sign-posts  at  every  turn;  those 
painted  red  pointed  toward  Compiegne. 

It  took  us  a  long  time  to  reach  the  forest  at  Pierre- 
fonds, which  joins  that  of  Compiegne.  By  an  abrupt 
turn  of  the  road  we  came  suddenly  in  view  of  the  enor- 
mous castle  of  Pierrefonds  and  the  little  town,  which  is 

1 08 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

known  for  its  sulphur  baths,  and  only  frequented  in 
summer.  No  one  need  inform  you  what  kind  of  baths 
they  are,  as  their  fumes  pervade  space  and  inform  you 
themselves. 

The  imposing  castle  looks  entirely  out  of  place  in  its 
surroundings;  the  little  hill  on  which  it  stands  seems 
as  if  it  had  been  put  there  in  order  to  accommodate  the 
castle. 

We  passed  over  two  bridges  and  over  a  pont-levis  at 
the  foot  of  the  castle;  then  through  a  second  gateway 
into  a  court,  and  finally  over  a  drawbridge  to  reach  the 
entrance. 

There  we  got  out  of  the  carriages,  passed  through  a 
dark,  vaulted  chapel  and  mounted  to  the  platform, 
where  we  had  a  splendid  view  of  the  town  and  the 
forest. 

Viollet-le-Duc,  who  was  with  us,  is  the  pet  architect 
of  the  Emperor;  he  is  working  hard  to  restore  these 
magnificent  ruins,  and  has  now  been  ten  years  about 
it,  but  says  that  they  will  never  be  finished  in  his  life- 
time. The  Emperor  is  very  proud  of  showing  them  as 
the  work  of  his  favorite  architect,  and  Viollet-le-Duc 
is  just  as  proud  of  having  been  chosen  for  this  stupen- 
dous undertaking. 

We  were  spared  no  details,  you  may  be  sure,  from  the 
smallest  of  gargoyles  to  the  biggest  of  chimneys.  There 
is  a  huge  fireplace  which  reaches  to  the  ceiling  in  the 
salle  des  gardes,  with  funny  little  squirrels  peering  at 
you  with  cunning  eyes.  I  wish  it  had  occurred  to  the 
great  architect  to  have  utilized  this  fireplace,  for  he 
could  very  well  have  put  a  few  logs  in  it  and  prevented 
us  poor  visitors  from  freezing  to  death. 

109 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

We  walked  (it  must  have  been  miles),  examining  every- 
thing in  detail.  We  mounted  two  hundred  steps  to  see 
the  view,  and  then  descended  three  hundred  steps  to 
see  the  arched  cellars.  The  castle  was  first  bought  one 
hundred  years  ago  as  a  ruin  by  some  one,  who  only  paid 
eight  thousand  francs  for  it;  then  Napoleon  I.  bought 
it,  and  now  Napoleon  III.  is  restoring  it.  It  is  seven 
thousand  meters  square.  It  has  eight  big  towers,  etc. 
I  could  go  on  forever,  I  am  so  brimful  of  statistics,  but 
I  spare  you. 

While  the  hampers  brought  from  Compiegne  were 
being  unpacked  we  tried  to  rest  our  weary  limbs  in  some 
prehistoric  chairs,  whose  carvings  pierced  our  bones  to 
the  marrow.  I  suppose  this  is  what  they  call  payer  de 
sa  personne.  1  consoled  myself,  while  drinking  my  tea 
and  eating  my  cake,  with  the  thought  that  my  personne 
was  paying  its  little  private  tax  to  art. 

After  this  interesting  but  fatiguing  visit,  and  after 
the  long  drive  through  the  cold,  misty  forest,  the  dead 
and  dry  leaves  rustling  under  the  horses'  feet  as  they 
galloped  along,  I  was  glad  to  rest  a  moment  by  my  cozy 
fire  before  dressing  for  dinner. 

I  was  a  little  dismayed  when  I  was  told  that  the 
famous  poet,  Theophile  Gautier,  was  to  be  my  dinner 
companion.  I  was  awed  at  the  idea  of  such  a  neighbor, 
and  feared  I  should  not  be  able  to  rise  to  the  occasion. 
Would  he  talk  poetry  to  me?  And  should  I  have  to 
talk  poetry  to  him? 

I  tried  to  remember,  during  our  promenade  down  the 
hall,  Longfellow's  "Psalm  of  Life,"  in  case  he  should 
expect  anything  in  this  line,  and  I  tried  to  remember 
something  he  himself  had  written;    but   for   the  life 

no 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

of  me  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  a  very  improper 
book  called  Mademoiselle  de  Manpeon,  which  I  had  never 
been  allowed  to  read,  so  that  would  be  of  no  use  as 
conversation. 

I  might  have  spared  myself  this  worry,  for,  from  the 
time  he  sat  down  at  the  table,  he  talked  of  little  else 
than  cats  and  dogs.  He  loves  all  animals.  I  liked  him 
for  that,  and  one  could  see  that  he  preferred  them  to 
any  other  topic. 

I  can't  remember  all  the  nonsense  he  talked.  In 
appearance  I  think  he  must  resemble  Charles  Dickens. 
I  have  only  seen  the  latter 's  photographs;  but  had  he 
not  rather  a  skimpy  hair  brushed  any  which  way  and 
a  stringy  beard?  I  fancied  him  so  to  myself.  At  any 
rate,  Gautier  looks  like  the  Dickens  of  the  photographs. 

He  said  he  had  eight  or  ten  cats  who  ate  with  him 
at  the  table;  each  had  its  own  place  and  plate,  and 
never  by  any  chance  made  a  mistake  and  sat  in  another 
cat's  place  or  ate  off  another  cat's  plate.  He  was  sure 
that  they  had  a  heaven  and  a  hell  of  their  own,  where 
they  went  after  their  death,  according  to  their  deserts, 
and  that  they  had  souls  and  consciences.  All  his  cats 
had  classical  names,  and  he  talked  to  them  as  if  they 
were  human  beings.  He  said  they  understood  every 
word  he  said.  He  also  quoted  some  of  his  conversation 
with  them,  which  must  have  sounded  very  funny: 

"Cleopatra,  have  you  been  in  the  kitchen  drinking 
milk  on  the  sly? 

"Cleopatra  puts  her  tail  between  her  legs  and  her 
ears  back  and  looks  most  guilty,  and  I  know  then  what 
the  cook  told  me  was  true." 

Then  again:  "Julius  Caesar,  you  were  out  extremely 

III 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

late  last  night.  What  were  you  doing?"  He  said  that 
when  he  made  these  reproaches  Julius  Caesar  would  get 
down  from  his  chair  and,  with  his  tail  high  in  the  air, 
would  rub  himself  against  his  legs,  as  much  as  to  say 
he  would  never  do  it  again. 

"Depend  upon  it,"  he  added,  "they  know  everything 
we  do,  and  more." 

I  asked,  "When  Julius  Csesar  comes  from  his  noc- 
turnal walks  is  he  gris  (tipsy)  ?" 

"Oris!    Que  voulez-vous  dire?" 

"You  once  wrote  a  poem  (how  proud  I  was  that  I 
had  recollected  it),  'A  minuit  tous  les  chats  sont  gris.'  " 

"C'est  vrai,  mais  je  parlais  des  Schahs  de  Perse." 

"Est-ceque  tous  les  Schahs  de  Perse  sont  gris  a  minuit  ?" 

"Madame,  tous  les  Schahs  de  Perse  que  j'ai  eu  I'hon- 
neur  de  voir  a  minuit  ont  ete  gris  comme  des  Polonais." 

' '  But  the  '  chats '  you  wrote  about  go  mewing  on  roofs 
at  midnight.     Do  the  Schahs  de  Perse  do  that?" 

"Did  I  write  that?"  said  he.  "Then  I  must  have 
meant  cats.     You  are  very  inquisitive,  Madame." 

"I  confess  I  am,"  I  answered.  "You  see,  that  poem 
of  yours  has  been  set  to  music,  and  I  sing  it;  and  you 
may  imagine  that  I  want  to  know  what  I  am  singing 
about.  One  must  sing  with  an  entirely  different  ex- 
pression if  one  sings  of  gray  cats  or  of  tipsy  Persian 
sovereigns." 

He  laughed  and  asked,  with  an  innocent  look,  "Do 
you  think  I  could  have  meant  that  at  midnight  nothing 
has  any  particular  color — that  everything  is  gray?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you  meant;  but  please  tell  me 
what  you  want  me  to  believe,  because  I  believe  every- 
thing I  am  told.     I  am  so  naive." 

112 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"You  naive!  You  are  the  most  blas^e  person  I 
ever  met." 

"I  blasee!    I!    What  an  idea!" 

Such  an  idea  could  only  emanate  from  a  poet's  brain 
with  an  extra-poetical  poet's  license.  I  was  very  in- 
dignant, and  told  him  so,  and  said,  "Est-ce  que  tous 
les  poetes  sont  fous  a  cette  heure  de  la  soiree?" 

"Vous  voyez,"  he  retorted,  "yo^  ^-re  not  only  blasee; 
you  are  sarcastic." 

I  enjoyed  my  dinner  immensely  in  spite  of  being 
blasee,  and  Gautier's  fun  and  amusing  talk  lasted  until 
we  were  back  in  the  salon.  The  Emperor  approached 
us  while  we  were  still  laughing,  and  began  to  talk  to 
us.  I  told  him  that  Monsieur  Gautier  had  said  that  I 
was  blasee.  The  Emperor  exclaimed:  "Vous  blasee! 
II  faut  y  mettre  beaucoup  de  bonne  volonte  pour  ^tre 
blasee  a  votre  age!" 

I  said  I  did  not  know  whether  to  be  angry  or  not  with  him. 

"Be  angry  with  him,"  answered  the  Emperor.  "He 
deserves  it." 

Waldteufel  began  playing  his  delightful  waltzes,  and 
every  one  was  soon  whirling  about.  I  never  heard  him 
play  with  so  much  dash;  he  really  seemed  inspired. 
Prince  Metternich  asked  him  to  order  a  piano  to  be 
sent  to  his  salon  in  the  chateau.  "I  cannot  exist  with- 
out a  piano,"  said  he.  "It  helps  me  to  write  my  tire- 
some rapports." 

There  were  only  two  pianos,  I  believe,  in  the  chateau; 
the  one  (upright)  in  the  ballroom  and  the  Erard  in  the 
salle  de  musique. 

At  eleven  o'clock  we  went  into  the  Emperor's  salon, 
where  tea  was  served. 

113 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Monday,  November  24,  1866. 

Dear  M., — At  breakfast  this  morning  I  sat  next  to 
Prince  Metternich.  He  told  me  that  there  was  to  be 
conseil  de  ministres  to-day,  and  therefore  there  was 
no  question  of  their  Majesties'  presence  at  excursions, 
and  no  particular  plans  projected  for  this  afternoon. 

Thus  we  were  left  to  our  own  devices.  Prince  Met- 
ternich's  fertile  brain  was  already  at  work  to  imagine 
something  amusing  to  divert  their  Majesties  for  the 
evening.  He  suggested  charades.  He  is  excellent  at 
getting  them  up. 

When  we  met  in  the  salon  he  spoke  to  the  different 
people  who  he  thought  would  be  helping  elements. 

The  Marquise  de  Gallifet  thought  that  tableaux 
would  be  better;  Count  de  Vogiie  suggested  games  (he 
knew  several  new  ones,  which  he  proposed).  All  in 
vain!  Prince  Metternich  insisted  on  charades;  there- 
fore charades  carried  the  day,  of  course. 

The  Prince  had  already  thought  of  the  word  "Exposi- 
tion," and  arranged  in  his  mind  what  part  each  one  of 
us  was  to  have.  The  Vicomte  de  Laferriere,  whom  he 
was  obliged  to  take  into  his  confidence,  told  him  that 
he  would  show  us  the  room  in  which  there  was  a  stage 
for  amateur  performances. 

As  soon  as  their  Majesties  had  departed  we  proceeded 
to  the  said  room,  where  there  was  a  little  stage,  a  very 
little  one,  with  red- velvet  curtains.  Next  to  this  room 
was  a  long  gallery,  in  which  there  was  a  quantity  of 
chests  containing  every  variety  of  costumes,  wigs, 
postiches,  tinsel  ornaments,  and  all  sorts  of  appurte- 
nances— enough  to  satisfy  the  most  dramatic  imagination. 

114 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Each  garment,  as  it  was  held  up  to  view,  suggested 
endless  possibilities;  but  the  Prince  stuck  firmly  to  his 
first  inspiration,  and  we  were  despatched  to  our  differ- 
ent apartments  to  think  out  our  roles  and  to  imagine 
how  funny  we  were  going  to  be. 

The  Empress  is  always  present  at  the  conseils  de 
ministres,  which  to-day  must  have  lasted  an  unusually 
long  time,  as  no  one  was  invited  to  her  tea.  So  we 
took  ours  with  the  Metternichs.  The  Prince  had  just 
returned  from  town,  and  was  childishly  eager  to  display 
the  various  and  extraordinary  purchases  he  had  made, 
which  he  considered  absolutely  necessary  for  the  finish- 
ing touches  to  our  toilettes.  His  requisites  consisted 
of  an  oil-can,  a  feather  duster,  a  watchman's  rattle,  and 
wax  enough  to  have  made  featvu-es  for  the  whole  Comedie 
Frangaise,  and  paint  and  powder  for  us  all.  He  would 
not  tell  us  what  he  had  procured  for  his  own  costume, 
as  he  said  he  wanted  to  surprise  us,  adding,  what  he 
could  not  buy  he  had  borrowed. 

Count  Vogiie  gave  me  his  arm  for  dinner.  Of  course, 
we  talked  of  little  else  but  the  charade. 

Their  Majesties  were  informed  of  the  surprise  which 
was  awaiting  them  in  the  little  theater.  The  Empress 
said  to  Prince  Metternich,  after  dinner,  ' '  I  hear  you  have 
prepared  something  to  amuse  us  this  evening.  Do 
you  not  wish  to  go  and  make  your  arrangements?  We 
will  be  ready  to  join  you  in  half  an  hour." 

All  of  us  who  were  to  take  part  disappeared  to  dress, 
and  returned  to  the  gallery  connecting  with  the  stage 
in  due  time.  Peeping  through  the  hole  in  the  curtain, 
we  could  see  the  imposing  and  elegant  audience  come 
in  and  take  their  seats  with  much  ceremony  and  calm- 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ness.  They  little  thought  how  impatient  we  were  to 
begin  and  yet  trembling  with  nervousness.  Their 
Majesties,  the  guests,  and  all  the  ministers  who  had 
stayed  for  dinner  more  than  filled  the  theater.  It 
looked,  indeed,  uncomfortably  crowded. 

At  last  every  one  was  seated,  and  the  first  syllable, 
"Ex,"  was  played  with  great  success.  It  represented  a 
scene  at  Aix-les-Bains. 

Invalids  met  (glasses  in  hand)  and  discussed  and 
compared  their  various  and  seemingly  very  complicated 
diseases.  They  made  very  funny  remarks  on  the  sub- 
ject of  getting  their  systems  in  order  in  view  of  the  pos- 
sible incidents  which  might  come  up  during  the  Exposi- 
tion of  the  next  year. 

The  Marquis  de  Gallifet  was  one  of  the  invalids,  and 
seeing  the  Minister  of  the  Interior  in  the  audience, 
looked  straight  at  him  and  said,  "C'est  a  vous,  Monsieur 
le  Ministre,  de  remedier  a  tout  cela  (It  is  your  business, 
Monsieur  le  Ministre,  to  cure  all  that),"  which  made 
every  one  roar  with  laughter,  though  Prince  Metter- 
nich  (our  impresario)  was  very  provoked,  as  he  had 
particularly  forbidden  any  one  to  address  the  audience. 

The  Princess  Metternich  looked  very  comical  dressed 
as  a  Parisian  coachman,  with  a  coachman's  long  coat 
of  many  capes;  she  wore  top-boots,  and  had  a  whip  in 
her  hand  and  a  pipe  in  her  mouth,  which  she  actually 
smoked,  taking  it  out  of  her  mouth  every  time  she 
spoke  and  puffing  the  smoke  right  into  the  faces  of  the 
audience.  She  sang  a  very  lively  song,  the  words  of 
which  her  husband  had  found  time  to  write  for  her 
during  the  afternoon.  It  began,  "C'est  a  Paris,  qu' 
5a  s'est  passe."     She  cracked  her  whip  and  stamped  her 

116 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

feet,  and  must  have  been  very  droll,  to  judge  from  the 
screams  of  delight  in  the  audience.  The  song  was  full 
of  quips  and  puns,  and  pleased  so  much  that  she  had  to 
repeat  it. 

The  next  word  was '  Tosition, ' '  and  acted  only  by  gentle- 
men. An  amateur,  or  rather  a  novice,  was  taking  lessons 
in  fencing,  in  order  to  defend  himself  against  probable 
attacks  upon  him  by  the  barbaric  foreigners  who  next 
year  would  invade  Paris,  and  he  wished  to  be  prepared 
sufficiently  to  resent  all  their  insults. 

When  the  curtain  came  down  all  the  sky  came  with 
it,  which  put  the  public  in  great  glee. 

The  whole  word  "Exposition  "  was  what  we  call  "Mrs. 
Jarley's  Wax  Works."' 

Count  de  Vogue  was  the  showman,  and  the  servant 
assisting  him  was  no  less  a  person  than  the  Austrian 
Ambassador  himself,  Prince  Mettemich.  As  the  stage 
was  small,  it  could  not  contain  more  than  two  couples 
at  a  time,  so  they  were  brought  on  in  pairs. 

First  came  Antony,  and  Cleopatra  (the  latter  Mar- 
quise de  Gallifet,  beautiful  as  a  dream)  drank  me- 
chanically (having  been  wound  up  by  the  servant)  an 
enormous  pearl,  and  Antony  (Prince  Murat)  looked  on 
wonderingly  and  admiringly. 

Madame  de  Bourgogne  and  Count  Grammont  were 
a  Chinese  chop-sticking  couple.  When  wound  up,  their 
chop-sticks  went  everywhere  except  into  their  mouths. 
The  Marquise  de  Chasselouplobat  and  the  Marquis 
de  Caux  were  shepherd  and  shepherdess,  with  the  usual 
rakes,  baskets,  ribbons,  etc. 

I  was  a  mechanical  doll  sent  from  America  (the  latest 
invention)  for  the  Exposition.  I  was  dressed  as  a  Tyro- 
9  117 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

lienne  with  a  red  skirt,  a  black  bodice,  and  a  hat  with 
a  ridiculous  feather  sticking  out  from  the  back  of  it, 
which  Prince  Metternich  said  I  must  have. 

While  the  others  were  on  the  stage  Princess  Metter- 
nich wrapped  a  lot  of  silk  paper  around  me  and  tied  it 
with  bows  of  wide  ribbon,  thus  covering  me  completely, 
head  and  all.  I  was  carried  in  and  placed  on  a  turning 
pedestal. 

The  showman  explained  the  wonderful  mechanism 
of  this  doll,  unique  of  its  kind,  and  capable  of  imitating 
the  human  voice  to  such  a  degree  that  no  one  could 
hear  any  difference. 

When  he  had  finished  talking  (I  thought,  as  I  stood 
there,  motionless  and  stifling  under  my  paper  covering, 
he  never  would  stop)  he  tore  off  the  paper  and  called 
his  assistant  to  wind  me  up. 

I  had  so  far  been  very  successful  in  keeping  my 
countenance;  but  I  assure  you,  when  I  saw  Prince 
Metternich's  get-up,  my  efforts  to  keep  myself  from 
bursting  out  laughing  almost  amounted  to  genius.  He 
had  said  he  wished  his  costume  to  be  a  surprise.  Well! 
The  surprise  almost  made  the  mechanical  doll  a  failure, 
and  had  not  Count  de  Vogiie  quickly  turned  the  pedes- 
tal around  I  don't  know  how  I  should  have  saved  my- 
self from  disaster. 

Prince  Metternich  was  dressed  as  a  servant.  He  had 
a  velvetine  coat,  red  vest,  knickerbockers,  white  stock- 
ings, and  servant's  low  shoes,  and  he  wore  a  huge  black 
beard  and  a  black  wig.  He  had  made  his  eyebrows  so 
bushy  that  they  looked  like  mustaches;  but  his  nose 
had  preoccupied  him  more  than  anything  else — I  don't 
know  how  much  time  he  had  spent  in  making  it.    First, 

ii8 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

he  made  it  hooked  and  then  changed  it  to  retrousse, 
then  again  back  to  hooked,  which  he  thought  suited 
his  style  best.  He  commenced  it  when  the  first  scene 
was  being  acted,  and  had  just  got  it  at  the  right  angle 
when  it  was  time  for  him  to  go  on  the  stage.  The  re- 
sult of  his  afternoon's  labors  must  have  been  most 
gratifying,  for  he  was  a  stupendous  success. 

He  wound  me  up  and  I  began  singing;  but  every- 
thing went  wrong.  I  sang  snatches  of  well-known  songs, 
cadences,  trills,  arpeggios,  all  pele-mele,  until  my  ex- 
hibitors were  in  despair. 

"Mais,  c'est  terrible,"  cried  Vogiie.  "Ne  pouvez- 
vous  pas  I'arreter?     Est-ce  qu'il  n'y  a  pas  de  vis?" 

"II  n'y  a  pas  le  moindre  vice.  Monsieur,"  shaking 
his  head  in  despair. 

Then  I  stopped  short.  How  could  I  sing  when  I  was 
convulsed  with  laughter? 

"II  faut  la  remonter,"  the  showman  said,  with  a  re- 
signed air,  and,  turning  to  the  audience,  he  announced 
that  such  a  thing  had  never  happened  before.  "La 
poupee  a  ete  probablement  derangee  pendant  le  voyage." 
This  caused  much  merriment .  "  Elle  a  besoin  de  1  'huile , '  * 
said  the  Prince  in  a  loud  stage  whisper,  and  took  the 
oil-can  and  flourished  it  about  my  shoulders. 

They  made  so  many  jokes  and  puns  that  they  were 
continually  interrupted  by  the  peals  of  laughter  which 
followed  each  joke. 

"Faites-la  done  chanter,"  implored  Vogue.  "N'y 
a-t-il  pas  un  clou?" 

"S'il  y  en  avait  eu  un,  je  I'aurais  trouve,  puisque 
c'est  le  clou  de  la  soiree." 

"Mon    Dieu!     Que   faire?     Et    tout    le    monde    qui 

119 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

attend.  Cherchez  bien.  Vous  trouverez  peut-^tre  un 
bouton." 

The  Prince  answered,  sadly,  "Not  a  sign  of  a  button, 
Monsieur."  And  he  added,  in  a  loud  voice,  "We  ought 
to  have  a  button  in  gold,  so  that  one  can  see  it." 

He  said  this  with  intention,  thinking  it  might  suggest 
to  the  Emperor  to  give  me  the  gold  button  which  he 
only  gives  to  those  he  wishes  to  make  life-members  of 
his  Hunts.  Ladies  do  not  often  get  them.  At  last,  the 
mortified  assistant  applied  the  rattle  and  wound  me 
up  again.  I  gave  a  little  nod  with  my  head;  they  both 
struck  attitudes  of  satisfaction,  and  one  said,  "Now  she 
is  going  to  sing  'Beware!'"  which  called  forth  a  burst 
of  applause  from  the  audience.  I  sang  "Beware!" 
and  the  Prince,  thinking  I  made  the  trill  too  long,  tried 
to  stop  me  by  using  the  rattle  again,  which  was  almost 
the  death  of  me.  I  wore  some  long  ribbons  around  my 
neck,  and  the  more  the  Prince  turned  it,  the  tighter  the 
ribbons  choked  me.  Happily  I  had  breath  enough  to 
go  on  singing;  but  I  turned  my  head  and  fixed  a  glassy 
eye  on  my  tormentor,  and,  instead  of  singing  "Trust  her 
not,  she's  fooling  thee,"  I  sang,  "Trust  him  not,  he's 
choking  me,  he's  choking  me." 

Luckily  he  understood,  and  the  people  who  knew 
English  understood  and  appreciated  the  situation. 

When  it  was  all  finished  the  Empress  came  hurriedly 
toward  me,  exclaiming:  "Thank  Heaven!  I  thought 
the  Prince  was  going  to  strangle  you.  I  was  so  fright- 
ened." She  then  kissed  me  on  both  cheeks,  and  the 
Emperor  gallantly  kissed  my  hand. 

They  both  said  they  had  never  laughed  so  much  in 
their  Hves,  and  were  most  profuse  in  their  thanks,  com- 

I20 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

plimenting  all  those  who  had  taken  part  in  the  charade; 
certainly  Robert  de  Vogiie  and  the  Prince  Mettemich 
both  outdid  themselves. 

It  was  one  o'clock  when  tea  was  served  in  the  Em- 
peror's salon.     You  may  imagine  if  I  was  tired. 


November  25th. 

Dear  M., — As  the  programme  announced  this  morn- 
ing that  there  was  to  be  a  chasse  a  tir  this  afternoon,  I 
put  on  my  green  costume  brought  for  this  purpose. 

The  Empress  appeared  also  in  a  green  dress,  with  a 
coquettish  three-cornered  hat  trimmed  with  gold  braid, 
and  looked  bewitchingly  beautiful;  the  Emperor  wore 
a  shooting  suit  with  leather  gaiters,  as  did  all  the  gentle- 
men.    Every  one  looked  very  sportsmanlike. 

M.  Davilliers  gave  me  his  arm  for  dejeuner.  He 
told  me  a  great  deal  which  I  did  not  want  to  know  about 
hunting-dogs. 

For  instance,  "Les  chiens  anglais,"  he  said,  "etaient 
tr^s  raillants,  tres  pergants,  mais  hesitants  dans  les 
fourres."  So  much  Greek  to  me;  but  I  pretended  to 
understand.  He  continued  to  say  that  the  Emperor 
had  an  excellent  trainer,  who  obtained  the  best  results 
because  he  treated  the  dogs  with  kindness.  I  inwardly 
applauded  the  trainer. 

He  said  it  was  better  to  let  them  have  the  entire  use 
of  their  faculties;  whereas,  if  the  unhappy  animals  are 
stupefied  by  bad  treatment  they  lose  their  initiative, 
being  pursued  by  the  thought  of  a  beating,  and  they 
don't  know  what  to  do,  instead  of  following  their 
natural  instincts. 

121 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  agreed  with  him  entirely,  and  thought  that  our  conver- 
sation was  an  excellent  preface  to  the  afternoon's  sport. 

As  the  Emperor  passed  me,  before  we  started  off,  he 
said,  handing  me  a  little  package  he  held  in  his  hand, 
"Here  is  the  gold  button  which  you  did  not  have  last 
night;  it  makes  you  a  life  member  of  all  Imperial 
hunts."     (So  Prince  Mettemich's  ruse  had  succeeded.) 

I  bowed  very  low  and  thanked  him,  and  asked  if  it 
would  necessitate  my  hunting.  "Certainly  not,  if  you 
don't  want  to,"  his  Majesty  answered;  "but  have  you 
ever  seen  a  chasse  a  tir?" 

At  my  answer  that  I  had  never  seen  one,  nor  any- 
thing nearer  to  one  than  people  going  out  with  a  gun 
and  coming  back  with  nothing  else,  he  laughed  and  said, 
"I  must  tell  that  to  the  Empress." 

It  is  the  Emperor's  habit  to  say,  when  he  hears  any- 
thing which  amuses  him,  "I  must  tell  that  to  her 
Majesty."     She  is  always  in  his  thoughts. 

I  said,  looking  at  the  button,  "Last  year  your  Majesty 
gave  me  a  gold  medal  for  singing  a  Benedictus;  now 
I  shall  sing  a  hallelujah  for  this." 

"It  is  not  worth  so  much,"  the  Emperor  said,  with  a 
kind  smile. 

"Would  you  like  to  accompany  me  this  afternoon," 
he  asked,  "and  see  for  yourself  what  a  chasse  a  tir  is?" 

I  answered  that  I  should  be  delighted,  and  said, 
"Shall  I  come  with  a  gun?" 

' '  Oh  dear,  no !  Please  don't !"  the  Emperor  exclaimed, 
hurriedly.  "But  come  with  stout  boots  and  a  warm 
coat." 

The  carriages  were  waiting,  and  we  were  soon  packed 
in  our  rugs  and  started  for  the  shooting. 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Emperor  drove  Baron  Beyens  in  his  dog-cart; 
the  Empress  drove  with  the  Princess  Metternich  in  a 
victoria  to  the  field,  where  she  left  her  and  returned  to 
the  chateau.  I  fancy  she  was  afraid  of  the  dampness 
of  this  bleak  November  day. 

We  arrived  at  a  great  open  place  and  found  all  the 
company  assembled,  and  I  should  say  the  whole  popu- 
lace of  Compiegne  had  turned  into  beaters  and  specta- 
tors. The  gentlemen  took  their  places  in  a  long  line,  the 
Emperor  being  in  the  middle;  on  his  right  the  person 
highest  in  rank  (Prince  Metternich),  on  his  left  Count 
Golz,  and  so  forth. 

Madame  de  Gallifet  and  I  were  a  little  behind  the 
Emperor,  between  him  and  Prince  Metternich.  Behind 
us  were  the  gamekeepers,  loading  and  handing  the  guns 
to  their  masters  as  fast  as  they  could.  The  three  first 
gentlemen  had  their  own  chasseurs  and  two  guns  each. 
After  the  gamekeepers  came  the  men  whose  duties  were 
to  pick  up  the  dead  and  wounded  victims  and  put  them 
in  the  bags. 

It  was  a  dreadful  sight!  How  I  hate  it!  I  am  sure 
I  shall  not  sleep  for  a  week,  for  I  shall  always  see  the 
forms  and  faces  of  those  quivering,  dying  creatures  in 
my  dreams.     I  never  will  go  to  a  chasse  again. 

And  the  worst  was,  they  had  frightened  the  birds  and 
animals  into  a  sort  of  circle,  where  they  could  not  es- 
cape; the  butchery  was  awful.  The  victims  numbered 
close  on  four  thousand.  Prince  Metternich  alone  shot 
twelve  hundred. 

How  happy  I  was  when  it  all  was  over  and  I  could 
get  away  from  these  horrors  and  this  miserable  sport! 
We  were  invited  to  the  tea  in  the  Empress's  salon.     I 

123 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

had  time  to  change  my  dress  and  put  on  the  high  silk 
gown  prescribed  for  this  function. 

Such  beautiful  rooms!  First  an  antechamber,  with 
cabinets  of  Italian  carving  and  vitrines  and  inlaid  tables ; 
then  the  Empress's  salon,  a  very  large  room  filled  with 
low  arm-chairs,  tables  covered  with  knickknacks,  books 
with  paper-cutters  still  in  them,  as  if  they  were  just 
being  read,  screens  with  engravings  h  la  Louis  Seize, 
and  beautiful  fans  on  the  walls,  also  splendid  tapestries. 
It  had  a  lovely  ceiling,  painted  by  some  celebrated 
artist,  mostly  angels  and  smiling  cherubs,  who  seemed 
to  possess  more  than  their  share  of  legs  and  arms,  float- 
ing about  in  the  clouds. 

The  Empress  generally  has  a  distinguished  person,  or 
some  kind  of  celebrity,  either  a  traveler  or  an  inventor, 
even  a  prestidigitateur  (ugh,  what  a  word!),  always 
some  one  who  is  en  vue  for  the  moment.  To-day  it  was 
a  man  who  had  invented  a  machine  to  count  the  pulse. 
He  strapped  a  little  band  on  your  wrist  and  told  you 
to  concentrate  your  thought  on  one  subject,  then  a 
little  pencil  attached  to  the  leather  handcuff  began  muffing 
up  and  down  slowly  or  quickly,  as  your  pulse  indicated. 

The  Empress  seemed  much  interested,  and  called 
those  in  the  room  whose  pulse  she  wished  to  have  tested. 
She  said,  "Now  let  us  have  an  American  pulse."  My 
pulse  seemed  to  be  very  normal,  and  the  exhibitor  did 
not  make  any  comments,  neither  did  any  one  else. 

"Shall  we  now  have  a  Germanic  pulse?"  the  Empress 
asked,  and  called  Comte  Solms.  "Think  of  something 
pleasant,"  said  the  inventor.  "A  ballet  is  a  nice  thing 
to  think  of,"  said  the  Princess  Metternich,  in  her  shrill 
voice. 

124 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Regarde,  comme  il  va  vite,"  the  inventor  cried,  and 
he  showed  the  paper  with  the  most  extraordinary  wavy 
Hnes.  Every  one  laughed,  and  no  one  more  than  Comte 
Solms   himself. 

Six  o'clock  came  very  quickly,  and  the  Empress,  rising, 
gave  the  signal  for  our  departure. 

The  Marquis  de  Caux  took  me  in  to  dinner.  He  is 
the  most  popular  and  sought-after  gentleman  in  all 
Paris.  No  ball  is  complete  without  him,  and  his  pres- 
ence at  any  dinner  is  sufficient  to  assure  its  success.  He 
leads  all  the  cotillons  worth  speaking  of,  and  is  a  uni- 
versal favorite.  He  allowed  his  secret  to  leak  out  (un 
secret  de  Polichinelle),  which  all  Paris  is  talking  about. 

I  swore  secrecy;  but  I  can  tell  you  that  it  can  be  con- 
tained in  one  word,  and  that  word  is  Simpatico,  which 
is  Italian  for  his  rendezvous  with  Her  at  the  American 
Doctor  Sim's  house,  for  it  is  there  he  meets  her.  Devine 
qui  pent!     (Guess  who  can !)     I  have  not  said  anything. 

At  nine  o'clock  we  all  adjourned  to  the  theater  in  the 
Palace,  to  reach  which  we  passed  through  many  rooms 
we  had  never  seen  before,  and  through  a  long  gallery. 
The  theater  is  very  handsome,  and  as  large  as  most  of 
the  theaters  in  Paris.  There  is  always  one  theatrical 
performance  during  each  week  while  their  Majesties 
are  in  Compiegne.  The  company  of  the  Theatre  Fran- 
gais  had  been  commanded  to  play  this  evening.  The 
piece  chosen  was  the  latest  one  of  Emile  Augier,  which 
has  had  a  great  success  in  Paris,  called  "Le  fils  Giboyer." 
Emile  Augier,  who  was  invited  specially,  was  present. 

Madeleine  Brohan,  Coquelin,  Breton,  and  Madame 
Favard  had  the  principal  roles.  Such  distinguished 
artistes  as  those  could  not  but  give  the  greatest  enjoy- 

125 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ment.  The  theater  is  very  handsome;  there  are  only 
boxes  and  the  parquet;  the  Imperial  Loge  reaches  from 
the  first  tier  of  bo.^es  to  the  last  seats  of  the  parquet  in 
the  shape  of  a  shell.  Any  one  standing  up  there  could 
touch,  on  raising  the  arm,  the  velvet  draperies  of  the 
Imperial  box. 

The  theater  is  entirely  lighted  by  wax  candles,  of 
which  there  must  have  been  thousands,  and  all  the 
scenery  belonging  to  the  play  was  sent  especially  from 
Paris. 

Their  Majesties  sat  in  the  center  of  the  Imperial 
Loge,  and  the  lady  guests  and  the  most  important  gen- 
tlemen, according  to  their  rank,  were  placed  beside  and 
behind  them. 

The  other  gentlemen  sat  in  the  parquet,  and  circulated 
about  between  the  acts. 

In  the  boxes  were  places  for  the  Court  ladies,  also 
the  ladies  invited  from  the  neighboring  chateau  and 
from  Compiegne. 

The  whole  assemblage  certainly  presented  the  most 
dazzling  and  magnificent  sight.  The  ladies  in  their 
beautiful  toilettes  and  superb  jewels  showed  to  the 
greatest  advantage  in  this  brilliantly  lighted  theater. 
The  Empress  was  gorgeous  in  yellow  tulle  covered  with 
lace  and  jewels.  She  wore  the  famous  Regent  diamond, 
which  belongs  to  the  French  Crown,  in  her  corsage,  and 
a  superb  diamond  tiara  and  necklace.  Princess  Met- 
ternich,  who  is  known  to  be  the  best  dressed  lady  in 
Paris,  had  a  black  tulle  dress  embroidered  in  gold;  she 
wore  a  tiara  of  diamonds  and  emeralds  and  a  necklace 
of  the  same. 

When   their   Majesties   entered   every   one   rose   and 

126 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

courtesied  deeply;  their  Majesties  bowed  graciously 
in  response.  The  Master  of  Ceremonies  gave  the  signal, 
and  the  curtain  rose  immediately. 

The  actors  seemed  inspired  to  do  their  best,  as  well 
they  might,  with  such  a  brilliant  audience  before 
them. 

I  wondered  if  they  did  not  miss  the  claque,  to  which 
actors  are  so  accustomed  in  France.  You  know  the 
claque  is  a  set  of  men  who  are  hired  to  clap  at  certain 
points  in  the  play  indicated  beforehand  to  them,  in  order 
that  the  audience  may  appreciate  the  most  salient 
points  and  join  the  applause,  if  they  wish  to. 

Every  one  enjoyed  the  play  immensely.  There  were 
portions  of  it  which  were  very  pathetic.  I  noticed  the 
Emperor  was  visibly  affected,  and  the  Empress  wiped 
from  her  eyes  una  jurtiva  lagrhna,  as  Donizetti's  song 
has  it. 

I  know  I  cried  my  lace  handkerchief  wet. 

The  representation  lasted  till  about  half-past  ten, 
and  after  our  return  to  the  salon  the  Emperor  sent  for 
the  artists,  who  had  by  this  time  changed  their  toilettes. 
Their  Majesties  talked  long,  and,  I  should  say,  familiarly 
with  them,  and,  judging  from  the  way  they  laughed  and 
chatted,  they  seemed  to  feel  quite  at  their  ease,  es- 
pecially Coquelin,  who  apparently  put  the  Emperor  in 
a  very  good  humor.  At  eleven  o'clock  refreshments 
were  passed  round,  the  carriages  were  announced,  and 
making  a  deferential  "reverence"  the  artists  took  their 
leave,  carrying  with  them  an  ornament  with  the  mono- 
grams of  their  Majesties  as  a  souvenir  of  their  visit. 

I  never  saw  the  Empress  look  so  beautiful  as  she  did 
to-night.     She  certainly  is  the  most  exquisite  creature, 

127 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  what  is  so  charming  about  her  is  her  utter  lack  of 
self  -  consciousness.  Her  smile  is  bewitching  beyond 
description;  her  complexion  perfect;  her  hair  of  the 
Venetian  type,  and  her  profile  classical.  Her  head  is 
so  beautifully  put  on  her  shoulders ;  her  neck  and  shoul- 
ders are  absolutely  faultless.  None  of  the  many  por- 
traits painted  of  her,  not  even  Winterhalter's,  do  her 
the  least  justice;  no  brush  can  paint  and  no  words 
can  describe  her  charm.  I  think  the  famous  beauty, 
Countess  Castiglione,  cannot  begin  to  compare  with 
her. 

Their  Majesties  withdrew.  The  guests  from  the 
chateau  and  those  from  Compiegne  took  their  depar- 
ture, and  we  all  dispersed  to  our  several  apartments. 

I  am  beginning  to  learn  the  ways  of  the  life  of  Com- 
piegne. 

At  nine  o'clock  our  tea,  coffee,  or  chocolate  (as  we 
choose)  is  brought  to  our  rooms  by  a  white-stockinged 
and  powdered  valet. 

If  you  are  very  energetic,  you  can  go  for  a  walk  in  the 
park,  or  (as  I  did  to  my  sorrow)  a  visit  to  the  town. 
But  you  are  not  energetic  more  than  once,  because  you 
do  not  find  it  worth  your  while,  as  you  must  hurry  back, 
and  change  your  dress  and  shoes  before  appearing  in  the 
salon  a  little  before  eleven  o'clock,  the  hour  for  breakfast. 
You  remain  in  the  same  dress  until  you  change  for 
dinner  or  the  Empress's  tea.  You  find  every  morning  in 
your  room  a  programme  for  the  day. 

Dijeuner  a  onze  heures. 

Chasse  d,  tir  a  deux  heures. 

Comedie  Frangaise  d  neuf  heures. 

So  you  know  what  to  wear  and  what  to  expect;   but 

128 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

the  invitation  to  tea  is  always  made  by  the  Empress's 
private  huissier,  who  knocks  at  your  door  toward  five 
o'clock  and  announces,  "Her  Majesty  the  Empress  de- 
sires your  presence  at  five  o'clock." 

The  toilette  de  rigueur  for  this  occasion  is  a  high-necked 
long  silk  dress,  and  you  generally  remain  until  six  o'clock. 

If  you  are  not  summoned  to  her  Majesty's  tea,  tea 
is  served  in  your  own  salon,  where  you  can  invite  peo- 
ple to  take  tea  with  you,  or  you  are  invited  to  take  tea 
with  other  people. 

If  there  is  a  hunt,  the  ladies  wear  their  green-cloth 
costumes  and  the  gentlemen  wear  their  hunting  gear 
(a  red  coat,  velvet  cap,  and  top-boots).  The  gentlemen 
wear  culottes  courtes  the  first  evening  they  arrive,  and  on 
such  fine  occasions  as  the  curee,  and  at  the  Gala  Theater, 
where  outsiders  are  invited;  otherwise  they  always  wear 
pantalon  collant,  which  is  the  most  unbecoming  thing 
one  can  imagine  in  the  way  of  manly  attire. 

At  six  o'clock  you  dress  for  dinner,  always  in  ball 
dress,  and  a  little  before  seven  you  meet  in  the  Grande 
Salle  des  Fetes.  At  dinner  the  guests  are  placed  ac- 
cording to  their  rank;  but  at  dejeuner  there  is  no  cere- 
mony, and  you  engage  your  partner  after  your  heart's 
desire.  Those  who  are  high  up  at  dinner  try  to  get  as 
far  down  at  the  end  of  the  table  as  possible. 

With  me  it  is  all  ups  and  downs;  at  breakfast  I  am 
'way  up  to  the  very  top,  and  at  dinner  'way  down. 

After  dejeuner  the  Master  of  Ceremonies  inquires 
what  you  wish  to  do;  that  is  to  say,  if  there  is  nothing 
special  mentioned  on  the  programme,  such  as  a  review, 
or  manoeuvers,  or  a  chasse  h  courre,  when  all  are  expected 
to  join. 

129 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Do  you  wish  to  walk?  You  can  tramp  up  and  down 
the  one-thousand-metre-long  trellis  walk,  sheltered  from 
wind  and  rain. 

Do  you  wish  to  drive?  There  are  carriages  of  all 
descriptions,  chars-a-hancs,  landaus,  pony-carriages,  and 
even  a  donkey-cart,  at  your  service. 

Do  you  care  to  ride  ?  There  are  one  hundred  and  fifty 
horses  eating  their  heads  off  in  the  Imperial  stables 
waiting   for  you. 

Do  the  gentlemen  wish  to  go  shooting?  There  are 
countless  gamekeepers  booted  and  spurred,  with  guns 
and  game-bags  on  their  shoulders,  impatient  to  accom- 
pany you. 

Whatever  you  do,  you  are  expected  to  be  in  your 
rooms  before  four  o'clock,  which  is  the  time  the  Empress 
will  send  for  you,  if  she  invites  you  for  tea. 

The  cercle  always  follows  each  repast,  and  dancing  or 
music  always  follows  the  cercle.  Tea  is  served  at  the  Em- 
peror's salon  at  eleven  o'clock,  after  which  their  Majesties 
retire,  and  you  do  the  same. 

November  26th. 

Dear  M., — A  very  embarrassing  thing  happened  to 
me  this  morning. 

We  thought  we  could  manage  an  excursion  to  the 
town.  I  wanted  to  see  the  Cathedral,  and  it  did  not 
seem  far  away. 

Therefore,  bright  and  early,  at  nine  o'clock  we  started 
on  our  trip. 

We  saw  the  Cathedral;  but  I  had  not  counted  on  the 
time  necessary  for  the  change  of  toilette,  which  I  had 
to  make  before  dejeuner. 

130 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  found  on  my  table  an  envelope  containing  this 
poetry,  which  I  inclose,  from  Theophile  Gautier.  I 
suppose  he  considered  it  as  a  sort  of  amende  honorable. 

A  MADAME  CHARLES  MOULTON 

Vos  prunelles  ont  bu  la  lumiere  et  la  vie; 
telle  une  mer  sans  fond  boit  I'lnfini  des  cieux, 
car  rien  ne  peut  remplir  Tabime  de  vos  yeux, 
ovi,  comme  en  un  lotus,  dort  votre  kvae.  assouvie. 

Pour  vous  plus  de  chim^re  ardemment  poursuivie, 
quel  que  soit  I'idcal,  votre  reve  vaut  mieux, 
et  vous  avez  surtout  le  blasement  des  Dieux, 
Psyche,  qu'Eros  lui-meme  a  grand'peine  eilt  ravi. 

Votre  satiete  n'attend  pas  le  banquet, 

et  connaissant  la  coupe  ou  le  monde  s'enivre, 

dedaigneuse  a  vos  pieds  vous  le  regardez  vivre. 

Et  vous  apparaissez  par  un  geste  coquet, 
rappelant  Mnemosyne  a  son  socle  appuyee 
comme  le  souvenir  d'une  sphere  oubliee. 

Theophile  Gautier. 

Charles  had  gone  long  before,  and  I  became  absorbed 
in  reading  it,  and  forgot  to  look  at  the  clock,  when  sud- 
denly, seeing  how  late  it  was,  I  rushed  down  into  the 
gallery,  and  what  was  my  horror  at  finding  myself  alone 
with  the  Cent  Gardes,  who  were  standing  at  ease!  It 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  them  look  like  mortal 
beings,  and  not  like  statues,  and  it  signified,  naturally, 
that  every  one  was  in  the  salle  a  manger,  and  that  I 
was  too  late.  However,  I  thought  I  could  slip  into  the 
room  unnoticed,  and  a  place  at  the  table  would  be  of- 
fered to  me ;  but,  alas !  it  happened  that  just  this  morn- 
ing the  Emperor  had  desired  me  to  sit  next  to  him.  at 

131 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

the  table,  and  the  Marquis  de  Caux  had  been  (and  was 
still)  waiting  for  me  at  the  door  to  conduct  me  to  my 
place  on  the  sovereign's  left  hand. 

I  cannot  tell  you  how  I  felt  as  I  was  being  marshaled 
up  the  whole  length  of  the  room,  stared  at  by  every  one, 
and  criticized,  probably,  for  this  horrible  breach  of  eti- 
quette. I  never  was  so  mortified  in  all  my  life.  I  took 
my  place,  speechless  and  confused,  and  Prince  Murat, 
who  sat  on  the  other  side  of  me,  kept  saying, 
"The  Emperor  is  piping  mad."  The  Prince  Murat  is 
half  American  (his  mother  was  a  Miss  Frazier,  from 
New  Jersey),  therefore  I  will  forgive  him  for  wanting 
to  tease  me. 

I  suppose  I  must  have  looked  very  red,  and  I  cer- 
tainly was  very  out  of  breath,  for  the  Emperor,  prob- 
ably noticing  my  embarrassment,  kindly  said,  "Don't 
worry;  you  are  not  late." 

I  told  him  I  had  been  sight-seeing  in  Compi^gne,  and 
I  hoped  he  would  forgive  me. 

The  Empress  smiled  and  nodded  to  me  in  the  most 
gracious  manner  across  the  table,  as  if  to  put  me  at  my 
ease. 

The  Emperor  told  me  that  he  had  sent  up  to  Paris 
for  a  game  of  croquet,  having  heard  from  Prince  Met- 
temich  that  we  all  loved  so  much  to  play  it,  adding  that 
he  would  like  to  see  the  game  himself.  "We  are  going 
to  have  a  mock  battle  this  afternoon,"  said  he.  "All 
these  generals  and  officers  who  are  here  have  come  from 
ever3rwhere  to  take  part.  I  think  it  will  amuse  you  to 
see  it,  if  you  have  never  seen  anything  of  the  kind." 

I  assured  him  I  had  never  seen  a  battle,  mock  or 
otherwise,  and  had  no  idea  what  it  could  be  like. 

132 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Well,  you  shall  see,"  he  said. 

"Is  there,"  I  inquired,  "as  much  firing  as  yesterday?" 

"Much  more;  but  this  time  with  cannons,"  he  re- 
plied. 

"I  hope  the  cannon-balls  are  also  mock,"  I  ventured 
to  say. 

I  told  the  Emperor  of  the  poetry  which  Gautier  had 
sent  to  me,  and,  having  it  in  my  hand,  showed  it  to 
him,  saying,  "Ought  I  to  forgive  him?" 

' '  You  ought  to  forgive  him, ' '  he  said.  *  *  This  is  the  most 
exquisite  thing  I  ever  have  read." 

"If  your  Majesty  says  so,  I  will." 

The  manoeuvers  were  to  commence  at  two  o'clock. 
All  the  ladies  wore  their  hunting-dresses,  and  I  was 
proud  to  don  my  gold  button. 

The  various  equipages  were  waiting  to  take  us  to  the 
field. 

The  Duchess  de  Persigny,  Princess  Murat,  Baron 
Beyens,  the  Marquis  de  Caux,  and  I  got  in  the  same 
carriage;  many  of  the  ladies  appeared  on  horseback. 
Princess  Ghika  rode  one  of  the  three  horses  she  had 
brought  with  her  to  Compiegne.  Madame  de  Vatry 
rode  one  of  the  Emperor's. 

All  the  carriages,  on  reaching  the  field  where  the 
manoeuvers  were  to  take  place,  were  drawn  up  in  hne, 
in  order  that  every  one  should  have  a  good  view.  Then 
the  Emperor  and  Empress,  on  their  beautiful  horses, 
and  the  Prince  Imperial,  full  of  youthful  dignity,  on  his 
cream-colored  pony,  arrived,  accompanied  by  the  staff 
of  splendidly  uniformed  generals  and  officers,  who  took 
up  their  positions  behind  their  Majesties  before  the 
manoeuvers  commenced. 

^0  133 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Empress  looked  radiantly  beautiful,  her  well- 
fitting  riding-habit  showing  her  fine  figure  to  the  greatest 
advantage. 

It  was,  as  the  Emperor  had  said,  a  mock  battle;  but 
it  seemed  to  me,  not  having  had  much  experience  in 
battles,  to  be  very  real. 

Officers  careered  over  the  field  for  dear  life;  orderlies 
with  enormous  flat,  four-cornered  things  flapping  across 
their  backs,  scurried  to  and  fro;  trumpeters  sounded 
bugles,  waved  flags,  and  made  signals.  .  .  .  What  could 
look   more  real  and  less  mock  than  this? 

It  was  France  versus  an  imaginary  enemy. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  one  thing  France  craved  and  coveted 
was  a  poor,  lonely  farm-house  in  the  distance,  appar- 
ently unprotected.  All  the  stratagems  of  war,  all  the 
trumpeting  and  capering  about,  were  brought  to  bear 
on  conquering  that  little  house.  The  artillery  collided 
up  against  it ;  the  infantry,  with  drums  beating,  marched 
boldly  to  the  very  door  -  steps ;  the  cavalry  pranced 
around  it.  .  .  .  But  for  the  life  of  me,  though  I  was 
staring  as  hard  as  I  could  through  my  opera-glasses, 
I  could  not  tell  whether  France  had  got  it  or  not.  How- 
ever, there  was  so  much  smoke,  it  might  have  capitu- 
lated without  my  noticing.    I  suppose  the  generals  knew. 

It  made  me  think  of  Tennyson's  "Charge  of  the  Light 
Brigade." 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them. 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 
Volley 'd  and  thunder'd. 

The  guns  and  cannons  kept  up  such  a  continual  firing 
that  the  ground  actually  shook  under  our  feet. 

134 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  wondered  why  so  much  powder  and  energy  should 
be  wasted  on  a  helpless  farm-house,  and  dreaded  to 
think  what  the  real  thing  must  be,  if  this  was  only 
sham. 

When  it  was  apparently  finished,  and  every  one  in 
the  neighborhood  had  surrendered,  they  sounded  a  grand 
fanfare,  and  blew  a  mighty  blast  of  trumpets,  the  officers 
dashed  up  full  tilt  to  the  Emperor,  and  announced, 
"Victory  all  along  the  line!" 

I  can't  tell  you  how  sweet  the  little  Prince  looked 
when  he  distributed  the  medaille  de  merite  to  the  brave 
warriors,  who  received  it  with  due  modesty,  saluting 
gravely. 

The  Emperor  rode  about  among  the  carriages  and 
asked  us  ladies  how  we  had  liked  it,  and  if  there  had 
been  too  much  noise. 

The  company  at  dinner  to-night  looked  particularly 
brilliant;  there  must  have  been  a  hundred  and  fifty 
people  present,  as  the  generals  and  the  officers  were 
asked  to  remain  to  dinner.  I  had  one  general  next  to 
me  at  table,  the  famous  General  Changamier,  who  my 
other  neighbor  said  had  one  foot  in  the  grave  and  the 
other  dans  le  plat.  He  was  so  old  and  thin  and  bony  that 
if  his  uniform  had  not  kept  him  up  he  would  have 
crumbled  together  before  my  eyes,  and  have  become  a 
zero  instead  of  a  hero.  However,  he  kept  together  while 
dinner  lasted,  for  which  I  was  thankful,  and  I  returned 
him  safely  to  posterity  and  to  the  salon. 

Their  Majesties  devoted  themselves  exclusively  to 
the  Army  after  dinner ;  but  they  sent  word  by  a  cham- 
berlain that  we  were  to  commence  dancing,  though  they 
had  not  finished  the  cerde. 

135 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Waldteufel  was  already  seated  at  the  piano,  waiting. 

The  officers  danced  vigorously.  The  elder  ones  ven- 
tured on  quadrilles,  and  danced  them  with  great  gusto. 

Prince  Murat,  noticing  the  old  generals  skipping 
about  so  youthfully,  proposed  a  Virginia  reel,  with  a 
view  to  giving  them  a  little  more  exercise. 

Every  one  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it ;  but  there  were 
only  a  few  who  knew  how  to  dance  it. 

Both  Prince  and  Princess  Metternich  had  learned  it 
at  Petit  Val.  Madame  Gallifet  knew  it  as  "Sir  Roger 
de  Coverley"  from  her  English  days,  and  Prince  Murat 
must  have  learned  it  from  his  American  mother. 

The  Emperor  danced  with  me,  as  he  said  he  would 
only  dance  with  an  expert! 

The  Empress  had  Count  Golz  for  her  partner,  and 
stood  next  to  me;  Princess  Metternich  (full  of  fun) 
chose  one  of  the  most  ancient  warriors.  Madame  de 
Persigny  and  Prince  Murat  were  at  the  end  of  the  line; 
the  other  guests  filled  the  intermediate  places. 

Prince  Metternich,  knowing  the  music,  thought  he 
was  absolutely  necessary  at  the  piano,  consequently  he 
took  Waldteufel's  place  there. 

I,  as  "the  expert,"  led  off.  The  Emperor  tried  to 
imitate  me,  but  became  confused  by  the  constant 
shouting  from  his  cousin  (Prince  Murat)  at  the  other 
end.  However,  he  and  I  managed  to  finish  our  part; 
but  the  Emperor  refused  to  be  swung,  and  we  marched 
down  the  middle  of  the  line,  hand  in  hand,  disregarding 
the  rules  in  a  truly  royal  manner.  Then,  having  watched 
the  Empress  go  through  her  part  (she  also  marched  down 
in  a  royal  manner),  the  Emperor  seemed  bored  at  look- 
ing at  the  others,  and  called  the  Marquis  de  Caux  to 

136 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

take  his  place.  Next,  Prince  Metternich  began  impro- 
vising reels  of  his  own  invention,  which  turned  into  all 
sorts  of  fantastic  measures,  which  were  impossible  to 
dance  by.  Madame  de  Persigny,  in  turning,  fell  flat 
on  her  back;  every  one  rushed  to  her  rescue,  which 
caused  great  confusion,  as  people  lost  their  places  and 
could  not  find  them  again. 

This  brought  our  famous  reel,  which  proved  to  be 
a  dead  failure,  to  an  abrupt  close;  and  the  old  generals, 
for  whose  sake  we  danced  it,  never  got  a  chance  to  show 
what  they  could  do;  and  we  were  thankful  when 
Waldteufel  returned  to  the  piano  and  played  a  waltz, 
to  which  we  could  dance  until  it  was  time  for  the  Em- 
peror's tea,  and  then, 

Bonsoir! 

November  2'/th. 

Dear  M., — Baron  Haussmann  took  me  in  to  de- 
jeuner this  morning.  The  Baron  is  the  Prefet  de  Paris. 
He  is  very  tall,  bulky,  and  has  an  authoritative  way  of 
walking  ahead  and  dragging  his  partner  after  him, 
which  makes  one  feel  as  if  one  was  a  small  tug  being 
swept  on  by  a  man-of-war!  I  wondered  if  the  Cent 
Gardes  noticed  how  I  tripped  along,  taking  two  steps  to 
his  one,  until  he  reached  his  seat  at  the  table,  into  which 
he  dropped  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

His  body  in  profile  defies  any  one's  looking  around 
the  corner,  so  to  speak.  I  could  only  see  at  intervals 
Marquise  Chasselouplobat's  shapely  elbows  and  hands. 
Our  conversation  turned  on  the  new  improvements  he 
intends  to  make  in  Paris.  He  asked  me  how  I  liked  the 
boulevard  of  his  name,  just  completed. 

^37 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"I  like  it,"  I  answered,  "though  it  has  deprived  us 
of  a  good  part  of  our  garden."  (It  had  cut  off  just  half 
of  it.) 

"It  brings  you  nearer  the  Bois,"  he  added.  "I  hope 
the  Government  paid  you  well  for  it." 

"I  suppose  the  Government  thinks  it  did;  but  our 
croquet-ground  is  gone  forever." 

"Forever!"  he  repeated.     "Where  do  you  play  now?" 

"Sometimes  at  the  Austrian  embassy." 

"Is  its  garden  large  enough  for  that?" 

I  answered,  "It  is  not  large  enough  for  a  real  croquet- 
ground;  but  the  ambassador  is  such  an  ardent  player 
that  he  has  arranged  a  place  under  the  trees  where  we 
play — sometimes  at  night  with  lamps  on  the  ground." 

"I  should  think  that  would  be  very  difficult;  quite 
impossible,  in  fact." 

"What  else  can  we  do?     We  have  no  other  place." 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  he  asked,  "How  would 
you  like  it  if  I  put  a  piece  of  ground  in  the  Bois  at  your 
disposal?" 

I  could  have  screamed  with  joy!  What  a  piece  of 
news  to  tell  my  friends  after  breakfast.  I  chanted  a 
little  Gloria  under  my  breath,  and  asked  him  if  he  really 
meant  it.  He  said,  "Of  course  I  mean  it,  and  as  soon 
as  I  return  to  Paris  I  will  have  the  formal  papers  made 
out  and  sent  to  you,  and  you  can  claim  the  ground 
when  you  like."  He  added,  gallantly,  "I  will  have  the 
document  made  out  in  your  name,  Madame,  in  souvenir 
of  our  breakfast  to-day." 

Is  he  not  a  very  generous  man?  But  if  every  time 
he  sits  next  to  a  lady  he  gives  her  a  slice  of  the  Bois 
de  Boulogne  he  will  soon  be  out  of  the  government  books. 

138 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

You  can  readily  imagine  the  delight  of  my  fellow- 
players  when  I  told  them  all  this  after  our  return  to  the 
salon. 

The  weather  looked  unsettled ;  no  one  felt  like  driving 
or  walking.  However,  later,  the  wind  veered  about,  the 
sun  came  out  of  the  heavy  clouds,  our  spirits  rose  with 
the  barometer,  the  elements  seemed  to  point  to  out- 
door amusements.  What  better  than  a  game  of  cro- 
quet? 

The  Emperor,  as  I  said  before,  had  sent  to  Paris  for 
the  game,  and  Prince  Metternich  felt  it  would  be  rude 
not  to  use  it.  We  have  been  playing  it  so  much  this 
year  that  we  have  quite  got  it  on  the  brain,  and  we 
were  very  excited  and  most  eager  to  play,  and  orders 
were  given  to  have  the  box  brought  out  on  the  terrace. 

Both  their  Majesties  were  highly  interested;  they 
examined  everything  with  the  greatest  curiosity,  un- 
wrapped the  balls  themselves,  and  were  quite  anxious 
to  begin. 

The  question  was,  where  should  the  game  be  put  up, 
and  where  should  the  wickets  be  put  down?  The  lawn 
was  wet,  the  gravel  walks  were  too  narrow.  The  only 
place  that  could  be  found  was  under  the  charmille  on 
the  terrace,  where  stood  a  grove  of  old  platane  trees. 

Prince  Metternich  was,  of  course,  the  moving  spirit, 
and  undertook  to  manage  everything.  He  and  d'Es- 
peuilles  got  a  meter  measure  and  measured  off  the  dis- 
tances with  great  care  and  precision  before  placing  the 
wickets.  This  took  a  long  time.  Then  he  distributed 
the  mallets  and  the  corresponding  balls  to  each  person, 
and  we  stood  in  front  of  our  weapons  ready  to  commence. 
Prince  Metternich  was  so  long  and  particular  about  telling 

139 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

the  rules  that  he  succeeded  only  in  confusing  all  the 
beginners. 

The  Empress  was  to  play  with  the  Prince  Metter- 
nich,  the  Marquis  de  Gallifet  with  the  Princess  Metter- 
nich.  The  Emperor  was  to  play  with  the  Marquise  de 
Gallifet,  Monsieur  d'Espeuilles  was  to  play  with  me — 
eight  people  in  all!  Nothing  is  so  dreadful  as  a  game 
of  croquet  with  people  four  of  whom  are  beginners. 

The  Empress  was  the  first  to  play;  her  ball  was 
placed  so  near  the  wicket  that  nothing  short  of  genius 
could  have  prevented  her  from  going  through,  which 
she  did  with  great  triumph;  her  next  stroke  went  far 
beyond,  and  she  worried  it  back  by  a  succession  of  sev- 
eral pushing  knocks  into  its  position.  No  one  made  any 
remarks.  Then  the  Emperor  made  a  timid  stroke, 
which  gently  turned  the  ball  over.  Prince  Metternich 
remarked  that  he  (the  Emperor)  should  hit  harder,  at 
which  his  Majesty  gave  such  a  whack  to  his  ball  that 
it  flew  into  the  next  county. 

"Never  mind,"  said  Prince  Metternich,  and  put  an- 
other ball  in  front  of  the  Emperor's  mallet,  and  some- 
how it  got  through  the  wicket. 

Princess  Metternich  played  next,  and  she  was  an 
adept,  so  all  went  well  with  her.  I  came  after  her,  and 
managed  to  get  his  Majesty's  ball  on  its  way  a  bit. 
Tiresome  pauses  and  long  explanations  followed. 

Prince  Metternich  shouted,  trying  to  rally  the  play- 
ers. 

"Marquis,  where  are  you?"  disturbing  the  Marquis 
from  a  flirtation.     "It  is  your  turn  to  play." 

"Really;   what  shall  I  do?" 

"Try  to  hit  this  ball." 

1^9 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

''Par  exemple!  Which  ball?  Where  is  it?  I  do  not 
even  see  it." 

"Here  it  is  behind  this  tree;  if  you  caramboler  against 
the  tree  you  might  hit  it."  And  in  this  way  it  went  on 
until  the  Emperor,  bored  to  death,  slowly  disappeared 
and  the  Empress  suddenly  discovered  that  her  feet  were 
cold  and  went  away,  and  couples  flirtatiously  inclined 
began  wandering  off,  and  it  was  nearly  dark  and  tea- 
time  before  Prince  Metternich  (who  was  worn  out  try- 
ing to  make  people  understand  or  take  any  interest  in 
the  game)  realized  that  there  were  only  a  few  devotees 
left  on  the  battle-field  amid  damaged  trees  and  chipped 
balls. 

So  ended  our  game  of  croquet;  we  felt  crushed  and 
crestfallen. 

At  the  Empress's  tea,  to  which  we  were  bidden,  we 
were  not  spared  satirical  gibes  on  the  subject  of  our 
luckless   game. 

The  Marquis  de  Gallifet,  Officier  d'Ordonnance  de 
I'Empereur,  whom  I  sat  next  to  at  dinner,  is  what  one 
might  call  sarcastic — he  actually  tears  people  to  pieces; 
he  does  not  leave  them  with  a  shred  of  reputation,  and 
what  he  does  not  say  he  implies.  He  thinks  nothing 
of  saying,  "He!  He's  an  abominable  scoundrel.  She! 
She  is  a  shameless  coquette!"  and  so  forth.  He  spares 
no  one;  nevertheless,  he  is  most  amusing,  very  intelli- 
gent, and  an  excellent  talker.  He  told  me  of  his  awful 
experience  in  the  war  of  Mexico.  He  had  been  shot 
in  the  intestines  and  left  for  dead  on  the  field  of  battle. 
He  managed,  by  creeping  and  crawling,  ''ton jours  tenant 
mes  entrailles  dans  mon  kepi,''  to  reach  a  peasant's  house, 
where  the  good  people  took  care  of  him  until  he  was 

141 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

able  to  be  transported  to  a  hospital.  There  he  stayed 
through  a  dismal  year  of  siiffering.  In  order  to  keep 
the  above-mentioned  enirailles  in  their  proper  place,  the 
doctors  covered  them  with  a  silver  plate.  "I  had  my 
name  engraved  on  it,"  he  said. 

He  asked  me,  "Did  you  ever  hear  anything  like  that?" 
I  tried  to  fancy  how  any  one  would  look  placarded  like 
that,  but  replied  that  I  had  never  heard  of  anything 
quite  so  awful;  but  1  had  heard  that  every  cloud  had 
a  silver  lining.  He  laughed  and  said,  "I  shall  call 
myself  a  cloud  in  future." 

The  dinner  to-night  was  very  good.  I  give  you  the 
menu: 

Potage  tortue  clair, 

Creme  de  volaille, 

Brisotins  de  foie  gras, 

Saumon  Napolitain, 

Filet  de  boeuf  a  la  modeme, 

Supreme  de  perdreaux, 
•     Homards  a  la  Parisienne, 

Gelinottes  roties, 

Salade, 

Petits  pois  a  I'Anglaise, 

Ananas  Montmorency, 

Glaces  assorties, 

Cafe — Liqueur  (both  served  at  the  table). 

Dinner  over,  we  filed  before  the  Cent  Gardes  in  their 
shining  uniforms  through  the  long  gallery. 

It  was  earlier  than  usual  when  we  began  to  dance; 
but  we  were  (at  least  I  was)  interrupted  by  receiving  a 
message  from  their  Majesties,  asking  me  if  I  would 
kindly  sing  something  for  them.  Of  course  I  did  not 
refuse,  and  we  adjourned  to  the  music-room,  where 
the  Erard  piano  was. 

142 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  did  not  exactly  know  what  to  sing;  but  Prince 
Metternich  soon  relieved  my  mind  on  that  score  by 
saying,  "Don't  bother  about  singing  anything  serious, 
and  especially  don't  sing  anything  classical."  The 
Princess  Metternich  could  accompany  anything  which 
was  not  too  difficult;  therefore  we  thought  I  had  better 
sing  "Ma  mere  etait  bohemienne,"  of  Masse,  which  I 
did.  I  saw  directly  that  this  melodramatic  music, 
beautiful  as  it  is,  did  not  suit  the  occasion,  for  though 
the  gaily  attuned  audience  was  visibly  affected  by  the 
phrase,  Et  moi  j'ai  Vdme  triste,  they  did  not  show  more 
signs  of  emotion  than  by  making  a  little  dab  at  their 
eyes  with  their  pocket-handkerchiefs. 

The  Princess  remained  at  the  piano,  ready  to  accom- 
pany the  other  songs  I  had  brought,  which  were  of  the 
same  character,  and  I  stood  by  her,  trying  to  decide 
what  I  should  sing  next,  when  the  Emperor  came  up 
and  asked  me  for  "Beware!"  Charles  accompanied 
that,  and  I  sang  it.  The  Empress  asked  me  if  I  would 
sing  some  Spanish  songs  for  her.  I  sang  "Chiquita," 
which  I  learned  with  Garcia,  and  the  "Habaiiero." 
She  seemed  very  pleased,  and  made  me  many  compli- 
ments. Then  the  Emperor  begged  me  for  some  negro 
songs,  and  asked  me  if  I  knew  "Massa's  in  the  Cold, 
Cold  Ground,  "  or  "Suwanee  River,  "  or  "Nelly  Bly,"  all 
of  which  he  remembered  having  heard  in  America. 

I  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  commenced  with 
"Suwanee  River."    I  fortunately  knew  the  words  of  that. 

(Oh,  Delsarte!  what  would  you  have  said  had  you 
seen  your  pupil  singing  this  claptrap  music  before  your 
sovereigns  and  their  most  distinguished  guests?") 

Delsarte  says  that  one  can  force  the  tears  into  one's 

143 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

eyes,  one  can  make  one's  lips  tremble,  one  can  express 
the  most  harrowing  emotions  in  one's  voice,  and  not 
sing  more  than  "do,  re,  mi,  fa."  I  tried  to  profit  by  his 
teachings,  and  brought  them  to  bear  upon  the  pathetic 
words  of  "Oh,  darkies,  how  my  heart  grows  weary," 
and  I  could  see  that  both  their  Majesties  were  deeply 
moved.  I  sang  the  word  "weary"  with  such  pathos 
that  every  one  was  more  or  less  affected,  and  the  phrase, 
"All  the  world  is  dark  and  dreary,"  I  rendered  in  the 
most  heart-broken  tones. 

I  was  sorry  that  I  could  not  remember  the  words  of 
"Massa's  in  the  Cold,  Cold  Ground,"  as  the  Emperor 
wanted  it;  but  I  could  not.  I  knew  the  music  of 
"Nelly  Bly,"  but  had  never  known  the  words,  so  I  tried 
to  improvise  some;  but  it  was  impossible  for  me  to 
think  of  more  than  two  words  which  rhymed  with  "Bly," 
and  those  were  "sly"  and  "eye." 

With  shameful  aplomb  I  sang  these  senseless  words: 

Nelly  Bly  wipes  her  eye, 

On  her  little  frock, 
Nelly  Bly,  Nelly  Bly, 

Dick  a  dick  a  dock. 

Happily  the  Emperor  did  not  notice  anything  wrong, 
and  was  delighted  to  hear  those  old  songs  again,  and 
thanked  me  repeatedly. 

Once  seated  at  the  piano,  I  was  not  allowed  to  leave 
it  until  my  repertoire  of  music  of  this  character  had  been 
exhausted. 

This  brought  the  evening  to  a  close. 

Tea  was  served;  their  Majesties  withdrew,  and  I  fled 
to  my  apartment  feeling  that  metaphorically  I  was 
covered  with  laurels. 

144 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEJMORY 

November  28th. 

Dear  A., — To-day  I  was  very  high  up,  'way  up  in  the 
clouds,  for  I  sat  next  to  the  Emperor. 

Davilliers,  one  of  the  chamberlains,  gave  me  his 
arm  and  conducted  me  to  my  place.  The  Emperor's 
first  words  were: 

*T  can't  thank  you  enough  for  the  pleasure  you  gave 
us  last  evening." 

I  tried  to  express  my  pleasure  at  these  kind  words. 

"Did  you  see  how  we  were  affected  when  you  sang 
'Suwanee  River'?  I  thought  to  laugh,  instead  of  which 
I  cried;   how  could  you  make  it  so  pathetic?" 

"That  is  my  teacher's  art,"  I  replied. 

"Who  is  your  teacher?" 

"Monsieur  Delsarte.  Your  Majesty  has  perhaps 
heard  of  him?" 

"No,"  answered  the  Emperor.  "I  have  never  heard 
of  him.     Is  he  a  great  singer?" 

"He  cannot  sing  at  all,  your  Majesty;  but  he  has 
wonderful  theories  which  go  to  prove  that  one  does  not 
need  any  voice  at  all  to  sing;  one  only  needs  features 
to  express  one's  emotions." 

"He  must  be  wonderful,"  the  Emperor  remarked. 

"He  is,  your  Majesty,  and  quite  unique  in  his  way. 
He  says,  for  instance,  when  he  sings,  '  J'ai  du  bon  tabac 
dans  ma  tabatiere,'  and  comes  to  'Tu  n'en  auras  pas,' 
he  can  make  people  shed  bitter  tears,  as  though  it  were 
too  much  to  bear." 

' '  His  tobacco  must  be  very  good  ?"  laughed  the  Emperor. 

"It  is  the  worst  thing  of  its  kind,  your  Majesty,  one 
can  imagine,"  I  answered. 

145 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Is  it  perhaps  Caporal?"  said  he,  with  a  merry  twinkle 
in  his  eye. 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  mihtary  grades;  but, 
if  there  were  anything  lower  than  a  Caporal  I  should 
say  it  was  the  name  of  his  tobacco." 

"Well,"  he  said,  "if  he  taught  you  to  sing  as  you 
sing,  il  nitrite  de  la  patrie.*^ 

The  Emperor  was  perfectly  delightful,  witty,  amusing, 
and  laughing  continually,  with  such  a  keen  appreciation 
he  seemed  really  to  enjoy  himself. 

As  the  programme  in  our  room  this  morning  read, 
chasse  a  courre,  on  went  the  green  dress  for  the  second 
time,  and,  of  course,  the  button.  The  Duchess  de 
Fernan  Nunez  asked  me  to  drive  with  her,  which  I  was 
happy  to  do,  as  I  like  her  very  much.  We  sat  on  the 
front  seat,  so  as  to  have  the  best  view  of  the  proceedings. 

The  Emperor  and  Empress  were  on  horseback;  all 
the  gentlemen  were  in  red  coats,  white  breeches,  top- 
boots,  and  velvet  caps,  which  made  them  look  very 
picturesque. 

The  rendezvous  was  at  the  Carrefour  I'Etoile,  and 
when  we  arrived  the  hunters  and  equipage,  with  the 
piqueurs  and  the  chasseurs  from  the  neighborhood,  who 
belonged  to  the  Imperial  Hunt,  were  already  there. 

The  Imperial  equipage  de  chasse  is  composed  of  ten 
piqueurs,  valets  de  chien,  valets  a  pieds,  valets  a  cheval, 
and  valets  de  limiers,  and  one  hundred  English  hounds. 
The  hounds  are  traned  by  the  use  of  drags,  which  are, 
as  perhaps  you  know,  bundles  of  something  saturated 
in  blood,  which  the  horses  drag  and  the  scent  of  which 
the  hounds  follow.  The  carriages  were  drawn  up  on  the 
side  of  the  road  to  wait  until  their  Majesties  appeared. 

146 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY" 

The  ladies  dressed  in  rich  furs  and  velvets,  the  riders 
in  brilliant  red  coats  on  prancing  horses,  the  attendant 
grooms,  the  piqueurs  in  their  gay  liveries,  green  and  gold 
with  green- velvet  jockey  caps,  made  a  wonderful  spec- 
tacle. The  day  was  superb,  the  sun  shone  brilliantly 
through  the  autumn  foliage,  the  hazy  distances  were  of 
a  tender  hue,  and  everything  had  an  exquisite  tint. 
Never  shall  I  forget  it! 

Unfortunately  our  coachman  neglected  to  follow  the 
other  carriages,  and  we  drove  about  a  long  time  before 
we  discovered  that  we  were  on  the  wrong  road,  and  then 
he  became  quite  bewildered  and  seemed  to  lose  his  head 
completely. 

After  driving  from  one  cross-road  to  another,  we  at 
last  chanced  upon  Monsieur  de  Bourgogne,  who  told 
us  that  he  was  just  in  advance  of  their  Majesties,  and 
that  they  would  be  there  presently.  He  said  that  we 
had  better  wait  where  we  were,  as  the  stag  would  prob- 
ably pass  by  that  way. 

It  seemed  as  if,  in  fact,  we  must  be  near,  as  we  could 
hear  the  dogs  yelping  and  the  horns  sounding  (they  call 
it  "hallali").  Count  de  Grammont  rode  up  to  us  and 
said  we  had  better  follow  him,  as  we  would  then  soon 
come  in  sight  of  the  hunters.  Despite  all  these  con- 
tradictory advices,  our  coachman  managed  to  arrive 
on  the  scene  of  action  just  in  time  for  us  to  see  the  poor 
stag,  who  had  taken  to  the  water  for  dear  life  (they  call 
it  bat  Veau),  and  the  dogs  in  a  frenzy  of  excitement 
barking  furiously  and  plunging  after  him. 

We  could  not  see  all  that  happened,  thank  heaven! 
as  our  carriage  was  behind  the  whole  assembled  crowd. 

With  my  tenderness  toward  all  animals,  my  heart 

147 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ached  for  the  poor  beast,  and  I  hoped  sincerely  that  he 
would  escape  his  cruel  pursuers.  I  could  not  see  any 
pleasure  or  excitement  in  watching  this  painful  spec- 
tacle, and  was  glad  when  the  time  came  to  turn  our 
backs  on  the  whole  thing  and  return  to  the  chateau. 

At  the  Empress's  tea  no  one  talked  of  anything  else 
but  the  events  of  the  afternoon.  I  pretended  that  I 
had  seen  it  all,  even  to  the  very  end.  Princess  Ghika, 
beaming  all  over  with  joy,  was  given  the  foot,  as  she  was 
in  at  the  death. 

Count  de  I'Aigle  took  me  in  to  dinner.  He  is  one  of 
the  neighbors,  not  one  of  the  guests ;  but,  as  he  belongs 
to  the  Imperial  Hunt,  he  is  always  invited  to  this  dinner. 

The  Empress  looked  superb  in  a  brown  tulle  over 
satin,  looped  up  with  brooches  of  diamonds.  She  had 
had  a  diamond  crescent  in  her  hair  like  Diana.  The 
Marquise  de  Gallifet  was  lovely  in  light-green  tulle, 
with  an  aigret  of  diamonds  in  her  blond  hair. 

The  table  was  arranged  most  appropriately  for  the 
occasion,  decorated  by  the  whole  biscuit  de  Sdvres  service 
de  chasse.  Every  one  seemed  gay  and  stimulated  by 
the  excitement  of  the  day. 

When  the  usual  after-dinner  ceremonies  and  the  cercle 
in  the  salon  were  terminated,  the  Grand  Chamberlain 
announced  to  his  Majesty  that  all  was  ready  for  the 
curee,  which  was  awaiting  his  permission  to  begin. 

The  Emperor  and  the  Empress  led  the  way  into  the 
long  gallery,  which  overlooks  the  cour  d'honneur.  We 
ladies  had  provided  ourselves  with  wraps  and  shawls, 
as  we  knew  we  should  need  them  either  on  the  balcony 
or  at  the  windows  of  the  gallery,  of  which  there  are 
about   twenty. 

148 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Empress  braved  the  weather  and  stood  out  on 
the  balcony  with  the  Emperor,  well  wrapped  in  furs,  for 
the  night  was  cold;  and  the  gentlemen,  not  finding 
sufficient  room,  went  below  and  stood  on  the  steps 
of  the  "Perron,"  which  gives  on  to  the  courtyard. 

All  the  lackeys,  valets,  grooms,  in  fact,  all  the  house- 
hold servants,  formed  a  large  circle  in  the  enormous 
cour  d'honneur  opposite  the  Imperial  balcony,  all  bear- 
ing flaming  torches  made  of  tar,  which  lighted  up  the 
whole  place.  Behind  these  stood  the  populace  of  Com- 
piegne,  who  are  allowed  to  be  present  on  these  oc- 
casions. 

At  the  farther  side  of  the  courtyard,  and  directly  op- 
posite their  Majesties,  the  chief  huntsman  held  up  the 
skin  of  the  stag,  which  contained  the  entrails,  waving 
it  backward  and  forward,  in  order  to  excite  the  hounds. 
The  piqueurs  stood  in  front  of  the  "Perron,"  holding 
the  dogs  back  with  great  difficulty,  for  they  were  strug- 
gling to  get  loose,  and  yelping  in  their  eagerness  and 
greediness  to  rush  forward. 

As  the  chasseur  waved  the  skin,  the  piqueurs  let  the 
hounds  loose,  and  when  they  were  half-way  across  the 
court,  approaching  the  object  of  their  desire,  the  piqueurs 
called  them  back,  in  order  to  show  how  well  disciplined 
and  under  what  complete  control  they  were. 

The  tantalizing  of  the  poor  animals  was  repeated  sev- 
eral times.  At  last  the  fanfare  was  sounded,  and  the 
hounds  were  allowed  to  rush  forward  midst  the  tooting 
of  horns,  the  cracking  of  whips,  and  the  cries  and  shouts 
of  the  crowd.  The  torches  were  waved  high  in  the  air, 
giving  a  weird  light  to  the  whole  scene,  and  the  entrails 
at  last  were  thrown  to  the  dogs,  and  before  you  could 

XX  149 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

say  "Jack  Robinson"  everything  was  devoured.  You 
can  picture  to  yourself  what  a  unique  and  fantastic  sight 
this  must  have  been ! 

It  was  eleven  o'clock  when  we  returned  to  the  salon, 
where  tea  and  refreshments  were  served.  Those  re- 
turning to  Paris  took  leave  of  their  Majesties  and  drove 
to  the  station,  where  the  special  Imperial  train  provided 
for  them  was  waiting. 

Later  their  Majesties  took  leave  of  us. 

We  lingered  a  little,  as  it  was  our  last  evening. 

On  returning  to  my  apartment,  I  saw  on  my  table  a 
package,  on  which  was  written,  De  la  part  de  VEmpereur. 
You  can  imagine  how  eager  I  was  to  open  it.  Those 
magic  words  brought  untold  visions  before  my  eyes. 
What  might  it  not  be? 

I  opened  the  package  feverishly,  and  what  was  my 
surprise  and  disappointment  to  find  a  rather  ordinary- 
looking  tabatiere  and  a  package  of  tobacco,  written  on 
it,  Du  bon  tabac  pour  le  mattre  de  chant  de  Madame 
Moulton. 

Was  it  not  a  cruel  blow? 

November  joth. 

Here  we  are  again  in  Paris,  glad  to  be  at  home  after 
our  gay  week  in  Compiegne,  charming  and  delightful 
as  it  was;  there  is  always  great  fatigue  and  tension 
attending  such  visits.  To-day  I  luxuriate  in  one  dress; 
no  changing  five  times  a  day.  I  allowed  my  maid  to 
go  out  for  the  day,  and  we  are  going  to  dine  at  a  res- 
taurant. .  .  .  What  a  contrast!  It  seems  as  if  I  had 
been  away  a  month! 

Before  we  left  Compiegne  yesterday,  when  we  were 

ISO 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

taking  our  morning  tea,  we  were  interrupted  by  the 
coming  in  of  the  majordomo,  who  handed  us  a  paper. 
We  were  not  unprepared  for  this  visit,  as  we  had  been 
told  by  one  of  the  guests,  who  had  been  here  before, 
that  every  one  was  expected  to  remain  in  their  rooms 
until  this  important  personage  had  made  his  rounds,  in 
order  to  collect  the  pourboire.  I  say  the  pourboire,  be- 
cause what  one  generally  gives  separately  is  lumped  into 
one  sum.  This  paper,  which  he  handed  to  us  almost 
at  the  point  of  his  hallebarde,  proved  to  be  a  gid  scritto 
receipt  for  six  hundred  francs — our  pourboire! 

During  breakfast  yesterday  the  Emperor  took  up  his 
glass,  and,  looking  at  me  across  the  table,  drank  my 
health.  Among  the  guests  there  was  a  great  deal  of 
health-drinking. 

Gustave  Dore  had  made  some  very  clever  caricatures 
of  some  events  which  he  had  drawn  beautifully  and 
touched  off  with  aquarelle,  as  he  alone  could  do  it.  The 
little  album  was  passed  stealthily  from  hand  to  hand 
under  the  shelter  of  the  table,  with  the  strictest  in- 
junctions not  to  let  any  one  see  it  except  your  immediate 
neighbor!  With  these  injunctions  it  managed  to  travel 
about  half-way  down  the  table. 

He  had  made  a  lovely  sketch  of  her  Majesty  driving 
a  chariot  like  the  "Aurora"  in  the  Rospigliosi  Gallery, 
and  had  depicted  the  Emperor  seated  on  an  enormous 
white  horse,  leading  a  charge  of  cavalry,  his  arm  up- 
Hfted. 

The  Princess  Metternich  was  represented  as  the 
coachman  in  the  charade,  hat  on  one  side,  pipe  in  her 
mouth,  and  looking  very  d^bonnaire.  Prince  Metter- 
nich was  shown  standing  in  the  middle  of  an  arena,  in 

151 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    iM  EMORY 

full  diplomatic  uniform,  with  masses  of  decorations  and 
cordons.  He  had  a  long  whip,  such  as  are  used  in 
circuses,  and  men  and  women  (meaning  us,  I  suppose) 
capering  around  doing  their  tricks. 

The  sketch  of  Madame  de  Persigny  was  very  funny. 
A  mass  of  tulle  petticoats,  in  the  midst  of  which  two 
little  feet  in  the  air,  and  a  crown  rolling  away  in  the 
distance. 

The  picture  he  made  of  me  was  the  mechanical  doll, 
ribbons  floating  all  about,  and  on  every  turn  of  the  rib- 
bons was  written  "Beware!" 

The  diplomat's  shoe  was  not  forgotten.  There  was 
a  table  a  mile  long,  and  at  the  very  end  of  it  a  little 
shoe  seen  underneath. 

We  were  in  our  traveling  costumes,  and  on  our  re- 
turn to  the  salon  their  Majesties  went  about  saying 
pleasant  and  gracious  things  to  every  one.  They  hoped 
we  would  remember  our  visit  with  as  much  pleasure  as 
they  would,  etc. 

There  was  a  greater  animation  than  usual,  and  less 
ceremony;  people  talked  louder  and  with  less  restraint; 
every  one  bade  good-by  to  the  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
the  Household  who  remained.  The  Empress  gave  her 
hand  to  be  kissed  by  the  gentlemen  (some  of  them,  not 
all),  kissed  some  ladies,  and  shook  hands  with  others. 

When  their  Majesties  were  ready  to  dismiss  us  they 
bowed,  and  we  all  departed  to  get  our  hats  and  wraps, 

I  gave  a  lingering  look  at  the  lovely  rooms  I  was 
leaving,  which  were  now  devoid  of  our  trunks  and  lit- 
tle personal  trinkets,  nodded  a  farewell  to  our  particu- 
lar valet,  who  was  probably  thinking  already  of  our 
successors,  descended  VEscalier  d'honneur,  and  passed 

152 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

through  the  beautiful  Galerie  des  Gardes  to  the  colon- 
nades, where  the  chars-h-hancs  were  ready  waiting  to 
carry  us  to  the  station. 

We  were  a  rather  subdued  party  In  the  train;  the 
conversation  mostly  turned  on  the  subject  of  pourboires. 
The  huissier  decides  the  exact  amount  that  each  ought 
to  give.  For  instance,  he  knows  an  ambassador  ought 
to  give  two  thousand  francs.  For  a  minister  of  state 
one  thousand  francs  suffices.  Unofficial  people  like  our- 
selves cannot  be  expected  to  be  out  of  pocket  more 
than  six  hundred  francs.  As  for  the  poor  nobility  of 
France,  they  escape  with  five  hundred! 

Some  were  of  opinion  that  it  was  pleasanter  to  give 
en  masse,  in  one  big  sum,  than  to  give  in  driblets;  others 
thought  it  more  satisfactory  to  hand  one's  offering  per- 
sonally to  the  different  servants;  but  we  all,  with  one 
voice,  voted  the  officious  beadle  an  imposition. 

The  daily  expenses  of  Compiegne,  so  the  Gouverneur 
de  la  Maison  told  us,  and  he  ought  to  know,  are  not  less 
than  ten  thousand  francs  a  day,  and  there  are  more  than 
nine  hundred  people  living  in  the  Palace  at  a  time,  to 
be  fed  and  warmed. 

To-day,  at  five  o'clock,  the  fourth  serie  will  come;  it 
is  called  la  serie  des  oublies,  as  ours  was  called  la  serie 
eUgante.  The  first  is  called  la  serie  ohligatoire,  the 
second   les   ennuyeux. 

We  found  our  carriage  at  the  station.  Our  simple 
coupe  seemed  a  great  come-down  from  the  beautiful 
carriages  we  had  been  driving  in,  and  good  Louis  and 
the  footman,  in  their  quiet  liveries,  seemed  in  fierce 
contrast  to  the  gorgeous  creatures  we  had  been  familiar 
with  so  lately. 

153 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  family  is  at  Petit  Val,  and  we  remain  there 
quietly  until  January. 

We  found  among  our  belongings  an  enormous  bour- 
riche,  containing  a  quantity  of  game,  hares,  pheasants, 
^nd  so  forth. 

Good  night!    I  am  tired. 

Paris,  186'^. 

Dear  M., — You  will  have  heard  so  much  about  the 
Exposition,  that  I  cannot  tell  you  anything  new.  It  is 
aow  in  full  swing,  and  I  think  it  is  magnificent.  Of 
course  I  cannot  compare  it  to  any  other,  as  it  is  the 
only  one  that  I  have  ever  seen. 

I  have  a  season  ticket  (costing  one  hundred  francs) 
containing  my  photograph  and  my  autograph;  there- 
fore no  one  but  myself  can  use  it.  The  Exposition 
building  is  round,  and  the  section  of  one  thing  goes 
through  all  the  countries;  for  instance,  art,  which 
seems  to  be  the  smallest  thing,  is  in  the  inner  circle. 
If  you  only  want  to  study  one  particular  industry  you 
go  round  the  circle ;  but  if  you  want  to  study  a  country 
you  go  down  a  section.  The  outer  circle  is  for  machinery, 
and  outside  in  the  grounds,  in  front  of  the  different 
countries,  are  the  cafes  belonging  to  them.  Here  you 
can  listen  to  the  different  national  musics,  and  see  the 
different  national  types  and  costumes,  and  eat  the  dif- 
ferent national  foods.  We  go  almost  every  day,  and  it 
is  always  a  delight.  You  can  see  the  whole  art  of  cut- 
ting diamonds,  from  the  gravel  in  which  they  are  found 
to  their  final  polish.  The  villa  of  the  Bey  of  Tunis,  a 
Buddhist  temple,  a  Viennese  bakery,  where  people  flock 
to  taste  the  delicious  rolls  hot  from  the  oven,  and  where 

154 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Hungarian  bands  of  highly  colored  handsome  zitherists 
play  from  morning  till  night,  and  a  hundred  other  at- 
tractions, make  the  Exposition  a  complete  success.  You 
pass  from  one  lovely  thing  to  the  other.  The  gardens 
are  laid  through  avenues  of  trees  and  shrubs,  where 
fountains  play,  and  beds  of  flowers  and  bouquets  of 
plants  are  arranged  with  the  most  artistic  taste.  All 
these  wonders  will  in  six  months'  time  be  reduced  to 
the  level  and  monotony  of  the  Champ  de  Mars.  One 
can't  believe  that  these  large  horse-chestnut  trees  in 
full  bloom  are  only  temporary  visitors,  like  the  people. 

The  Prince  Oscar  of  Sweden  (he  will  one  day  be  the 
King)  came  often  to  the  Exposition,  and  went  about 
with  us.  He  was  very  much  interested  in  everything 
he  saw,  especially  in  the  American  Stein  way  pianos. 
He  sent  me  several  times  some  of  the  famous  punch  they 
make  in  Sweden,  also  some  silver  brooches  which  the 
Swedish  peasants  wear.  He  has  a  bdteau  mouche,  in 
which  he  takes  his  friends  up  and  down  the  Seine.  The 
Princess  Mathilde  and  Madame  de  GalHfet  were  of  the 
party  last  Monday.  We  mouched  as  far  as  Boulogne, 
where  Baron  James  Rothschild  has  a  charming  place 
called  Bagatelle,  which  the  Princewanted  very  much  to  see. 

We  got  out  of  the  boat  and  walked  up  to  the  entrance 
of  the  park;  but  the  porter  refused,  in  spite  of  all  plead- 
ings, to  let  us  in,  and  was  almost  rude  until  Monsieur 
Due  mentioned  the  name  of  the  illustrious  visitor;  then 
the  gates  were  thrown  wide  open,  and  we  walked  in  and 
all  over  the  place.  The  porter,  becoming  most  humble 
and  servile,  offered  to  escort  us  over  the  house,  and  even 
asked  us  to  take  tea;  but  we  did  not  succumb  to  either 
of  these  temptations. 

155 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

There  are  so  many  kings  and  sovereigns  here:  the 
Emperor  of  Russia,  who  is  very  handsome  and  stately; 
the  King  of  Prussia,  who  is  accompanied  by  the  colossal 
Count  Bismarck,  very  noticeable  in  his  dazzling  white 
uniform,  and  wearing  a  shining  helmet  with  an  enormous 
spread  eagle  on  top  of  it,  which'  made  him  tower  still 
more  above  ordinary  mortals,  and  reminded  me  of  all 
the  mythological  heroes  I  knew  of.  He  clanked  his 
sword  on  the  pavement,  quite  indifferent  to  the  stare 
of  wondering  Frenchmen,  and  was  followed  by  several 
other  tall  Germans,  who  regarded  everything  de  haut 
en  has  with  Teutonic  phlegm.  The  Prince  of  Italy 
(Umberto)  looks  rather  small  by  the  side  of  these  German 
giants.  The  Khedive  of  Egypt,  the  Shah  of  Persia,  the 
ex-Queen  of  Spain,  and  other  sovereigns  are  flitting  about. 

The  Baron  James  Rothschild  invited  us  to  go  to 
Ferriere's  with  Prince  Oscar  of  Sweden.  That  was  very 
amusing !  We  had  a  special  train  from  Paris  and  Roth- 
schild's special  car;  when  we  arrived  at  Ferriere's  we 
first  had  refreshments,  then  we  walked  in  the  grounds 
till  it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  We  met  before 
dining  in  the  enormous  salon  in  the  center  of  the  chateau. 
This  salon  is  two  stories  high,  with  a  gallery  around  it, 
and  was  so  large  that  a  billiard-table  in  one  comer 
seemed  too  small  to  be  noticed,  and  the  concert-grand 
piano  standing  at  the  other  end  looked  insignificant. 
The  dining-table  was  beautifully  decorated  with  gar- 
lands of  roses  and  a  whole  collection  of  antique  goblets, 
worth  a  fortune.  There  were  huge  bouquets  of  roses 
for  the  ladies,  almost  too  big  to  carry. 

Prince  Oscar's  brother  had  once  written  a  very  pretty 
song,  called  "I  Rosens  duft,"  which  some  one  had  ar- 

is6 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ranged  as  a  duet,  and  the  Prince  wanted  me  to  sing  it 
with  him  (he  had  thoughtfully  brought  the  music).  All 
through  dinner  he  was  teaching  me  the  Swedish  words, 
so  that  we  could  sing  it  afterward.  He  was  so  intent 
(and  so  was  I)  that  every  one,  I  am  sure,  thought  we 
were  having  a  tremendous  flirtation,  as  they  saw  our 
heads  almost  touching  when  he  was  writing  the  words 
on  the  menu.  He  also  wrote  a  poem  to  me  (which  I 
inclose),  which  he  said  he  composed  on  the  spot.  How 
can  he  be  so  clever? 

PRINCE   OSCAR'S   POEM 

WRITTEN  AT  THE  DINNER-TABLE  AT  LAFERRIERE's 
1867 

Din  sang,  hur  skon,  hur  underbar! 
En  balsamdoft  pa  dina  lappar  hvila. 
En  valljudsstrom  fran  ditt  hjarta  ila, 
Vill  mana  fram  ur  verldens  haf  ett  svar: 
Din  sing,  hur  skon,  hur  underbar! 

Din  ton,  hur  stark,  hur  Ijuf,  hur  ren! 

En  altareld  som  ingen  flagt  f^  stora, 

Och  dock  en  storm  som  sjalens  djup  kan  rora, 

En  glod  som  smalta  kan  "de  visas  sten": 

Sa  ar  din  ton — sa  stark,  sa  ren. 

Sjung  mer,  sjung  mer,  det  har  sa  godt 

En  stund  fa  glamma  verldens  hvimmel 

Och  lyss  till  samklang  ur  en  oppnad  himmel, 

Om  ock  for  en  minut  i  dromma  blott: 

Sjung  mer,  sjung  mer,  det  gor  mit  hjarta  godt. 

(Translated  literally) 

Your  voice,  how  beautiful,  how  wonderful! 
A  perfume  of  balsam  rests  on  your  lips, 
A  torrent  of  melody  rushes  from  your  heart, 
That  can  only  be  echoed  by  the  world's  ocean: 
Your  voice,  how  beautiful,  how  wonderful! 

157 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Your  voice,  how  full  of  power,  how  enchanting  and  pure! 

A  sacred  fire  which  no  breeze  can  trouble, 

And  yet  a  tempest  that  stirs  the  very  soul, 

A  glowing  flame  which  can  melt  the  philosopher's  stone: 

Such  is  your  voice — so  powerful,  so  pure. 

Sing  more,  sing  more,  it  is  so  good 

For  one  moment  to  forget  the  tumult  of  this  world 

And  listen  to  the  harmony  of  a  heaven  unveiled, 

And  if  only  for  a  moment  to  dream: 

Sing  more,  sing  more,  it  makes  my  heart  rejoice. 


We  sang  the  duet  after  dinner  with  such  success  that 
we  had  to  repeat  it.  Before  our  departure  there  was  a 
grand  display  of  fireworks:  O's  appeared  in  every  di- 
mension and  design,  and  a  blaze  of  fire  and  Bengal 
lights  in  rapid  succession  kept  us  in  a  continual  state 
of  admiration. 

I  received  a  little  note  from  Jenny  Lind.  She  is  in 
Paris,  and  wished  to  know  when  she  could  come  to  see 
me.  I  wrote  to  her  directly  that  I  would  let  Monsieur 
Auber  know,  and  he  would  probably  come  at  four 
o'clock  (his  usual  hour).  Therefore,  it  all  came  about. 
Jenny  Lind  came,  so  did  Auber.  The  meeting  was  a 
pleasture  to  them  both.  They  talked  music,  art,  told 
many '  anecdotes  of  celebrated  acquaintances :  Alboni, 
Nilsson,  Patti,  etc.  He  had  brought  some  of  his  music 
with  him,  and  Jenny  Lind  and  I  sang  the  duo  of  his 
latest  opera  "Le  Premier  Jour  de  Bonheur."  He  con- 
sulted me  as  to  whether  he  might  dare  to  ask  her  to 
dine  with  him,  with  a  few  congenial  spirits.  I  said 
I  was  sure  she  would  be  enchanted  to  do  so,  which  she 
was. 

As  to  the  congenial  spirits,  Auber  suggested  the  Met- 

iS8 


X=5^^^ 


f^-^^L 


'^.<^  C^ 


^rj^h<^^       ^;5^,*«<:-s<    ^^^*tet^ 


FACSIMILE   OF   LETTER   FROM   JENNY   LIND 


1 


/^.y^?^^.*^. 


/ 


/ 


41 


-^^ . 


^^^^^<^.  J^ 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

temichs,  Gounod,  Duke  de  Massa,  and  ourselves,  making 
ten  in  all. 

No  one  refused,  and  we  had  the  most  delightful  dinner. 
The  Princess  proposed  to  Auber  to  give  his  arm  to 
Jenny  Lind,  and  to  put  her  at  his  right  hand,  la  place 
d'honneur,  adding,  with  her  most  ironical  smile,  "le 
genie  avant  la  beaute."  Auber  made  a  charming  host, 
telling  one  funny  anecdote  after  the  other  in  his  quiet 
and  typical  manner.  Gounod,  in  his  low  and  drawly 
voice,  said:  "Vous  nous  donnez,  mon  cher  Auber,  des 
choses  par  trop  ennuyeuses  aux  concerts  du  Conserva- 
toire. A  la  pensee  des  'Quatre  saisons'  de  Haydn  je 
m'endors.  Pourquoi  ne  s'est-il  pas  contente  d'une 
saison?"  Princess  Metternich  replied,  "Que  probable- 
ment  en  les  composant  Haydn  s'est  mis  en  quatre." 
"La  moitie  m'aurait  suffi,"  said  Auber;  "poiu*  moi,  elles 
sont  toutes  mon  aulomne''  (monotone). 

When  we  returned  to  the  salon  we  discreetly  waited 
for  the  promised  song. 

Suddenly  Jenny  Lind  jumped  up,  saying,  "Shall  I 
sing  something?" 

Of  course,  every  one  was  wild  to  hear  her.  She  went 
to  the  piano  and  accompanied  herself  in  "Qui  la  voce," 
of  "I  Puritani."  We  were  all  enchanted,  clapping  our 
hands  with  enthusiasm.  Then  Gounod  played  and 
sang,  or  rather  hummed,  a  new  song  of  his,  saying  to 
Jenny  Lind,  when  he  took  his  place  at  the  piano,  "I 
am  not  worthy  to  succeed  you." 

We  thought  him  much  too  modest. 

He  hummed  deliciously! 

They  asked  me  to  sing,  and,  though  I  really  hated 
to  sing  after  these  great  artists,  I  did  so  to  please  Auber, 

159 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

who  accompanied  me  in  "Les  Djins,"  of  which  he  is  very 
proud,  because  it  has  the  same  bass  all  the  way  through. 
How  little  it  takes  to  please  genius! 

After  this  Jenny  Lind  and  I  performed  the  duo  from 
''Le  Premier  Jour  de  Bonheur"  we  had  practised  at  my 
house.  She  put  her  arm  around  my  waist  while  we 
were  singing,  as  if  we  were  two  school-girls. 

Prince  Metternich  played  one  of  his  brilliant  Austrian 
waltzes,  which  was  so  bewildering  that  if  any  man  had 
dared  to  put  his  arm  round  Jenny  Lind's  matronly 
waist  I  am  sure  she  would  have  skipped  off  in  the  dance. 

For  la  bonne  houche  she  gave  us  a  Swedish  peasant 
song,  which  was  simply  bewitching.  Her  high  notes 
were  exquisitely  pure,  the  lower  ones  I  thought  weak; 
but  that  might  have  been  owing  to  the  good  dinner  she 
had  eaten — at  least  she  said  so. 

There  is  a  musical  phenomenon  here  just  now  in  the 
shape  of  an  American  negro ;  he  is  blind  and  idiotic,  but 
has  a  most  extraordinary  intelligence  for  music.  All 
his  senses  seem  to  have  been  concentrated  in  this  one 
sense.  Prince  and  Princess  Metternich,  Auber,  and 
ourselves  went  to  his  concert.  Auber  said,  "Cet  idiot, 
noir  et  aveugle,  est  vraiment  merveilleux. "  Blind  Tom 
had  learned  his  repertoire  entirely  by  ear ;  therefore  it  was 
very  limited,  as  he  could  only  remember  what  he  had 
heard  played  a  few  days  before.  His  memory  did  not 
last  long.  He  was  wonderful.  Not  only  could  he  exe- 
cute well,  but  he  could  imitate  any  one's  mannerisms 
and  their  way  of  playing.  The  impresario  came  for- 
ward, saying,  'T  am  told  that  Monsieur  Auber  is  in 
the  audience.  May  I  dare  to  ask  him  to  come  up  and 
play  something?"    Auber  said  he  thought  he  should  die 

i6p 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

of  fright.  We  all  urged  him,  for  the  curiosity  of  the 
thing,  to  play  something  of  his  new  opera,  which  no 
one  as  yet  had  heard,  therefore  no  one  could  have 
known  it. 

Auber  mounted  the  platform,  amid  the  enthusiastic 
applause  of  the  audience,  and  performed  his  solo.  Then 
Blind  Tom  sat  down  and  played  it  after  him  so  accurate- 
ly, with  the  same  staccato,  old-fashioned  touch  of  Auber, 
that  no  one  could  have  told  whether  Auber  was  still 
at  the  piano.  Auber  returned  and  bowed  to  the  wildly 
excited  public  and  to  us.  He  said,  "This  is  my  first 
appearance  as  a  pianist,  and  my  last." 

Prince  Metternich,  inspired  by  Auber's  pluck,  fol- 
lowed his  example,  and  mounting  the  stage  rattled  off 
one  of  his  own  fiery,  dashing  waltzes,  which  Blind  Tom 
repeated  in  the  Prince's  particular  manner.  After  the 
concert  we  went  into  the  artist's  room  to  speak  with 
the  impresario,  and  found  poor  Tom  banging  his  head 
against  the  wall  like  the  idiot  he  was.  Auber  remarked, 
"C'est  humiliant  pour  nous  autres." 

Paris,  June,  1867. 

Dear  M., — The  famous  pianist  Liszt,  the  new  Abbe, 
is  pervading  Paris  just  now,  and  is,  I  think,  very  pleased 
to  be  a  priestly  lion,  taking  his  success  as  a  matter  of 
course.  There  are  a  succession  of  dinners  in  his  honor, 
where  he  does  ample  honor  to  the  food,  and  is  in  no  way 
bashful  about  his  appetite. 

He  does  a  great  deal  of  beaming,  he  has  (as  some  one 
said)  "so  much  countenance." 

He  dined  with  us  the  other  night,  the  Metternichs, 

161 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  twenty-five  other  people,  among  whom  were  Auber 
and  Massenet. 

In  the  boudoir,  before  dinner,  he  spied  a  manuscript 
which  Auber  had  brought  that  afternoon.  He  took  it 
up,  looked  at  it,  and  said,  "C'est  tres  joli!"  and  laid  it 
down  again.  When  we  went  in  to  dinner,  and  after  his 
cigar  in  the  conservatory  (he  is  a  great  smoker) ,  he  went 
to  the  piano  and  played  the  "/o/z"  little  thing  of  Auber's. 
Was  that  not  wonderful,  that  he  could  remember  it  all 
the  time  during  the  dinner?  He  seemed  only  to  have 
glanced  at  it,  and  yet  he  could  play  it  like  that  off  from 
memory.  He  is  so  kind  and  good,  especially  to  strug- 
gling artists,  trying  to  help  them  in  every  way.  He 
seemed  extraordinarily  amiable  that  evening,  for  he  sat 
down  at  the  piano  without  being  asked  and  played  a 
great  many  of  his  compositions — quite  an  unusual 
thing  for  him  to  do!  One  has  generally  to  tease  and 
beg  him,  and  then  he  refuses.  But  I  think,  when  he 
heard  Massenet  improvising  at  one  of  the  pianos  he 
was  inspired,  and  he  put  himself  at  the  other  (we 
have  two  grand  pianos),  and  they  played  divinely,  both 
of  them  improvising.  He  is  by  far  the  finest  pianist 
I  have  ever  heard,  and  has  a  very  seductive  way  of 
looking  at  you  while  playing,  as  if  he  was  only  playing 
for  you,  and  when  he  smiles  you  simply  go  to  pieces. 
I  don't  wonder  he  is  such  a  lady-killer,  and  that  no 
woman  can  resist  him;  even  my  father-in-law  stayed 
in  the  salon,  being  completely  hypnotized  by  Liszt,  who 
ought  to  consider  this  as  one  of  his  greatest  triumphs, 
if  he  only  knew. 

I  sang  some  of  Massenet's  songs,  accompanied,  of 
course,   by   Massenet.     Liszt  was  most  attentive  and 

162 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

most  enthusiastic.  He  said  Massenet  had  a  great 
future,  and  he  complimented  me  on  my  singing,  es- 
pecially my  phrasing  and  expression. 

I  wonder  if  the  story  be  true  that  he  was  engaged 
to  be  married  to  Princess  Wittgenstein,  and  on  the  day 
of  the  wedding,  when  the  bridal-dress  was  ready  to  be 
put  on,  she  got  a  letter  from  her  fiance  (can  any  one 
imagine  Liszt  as  a  fiance)  saying  that  he  had  taken  holy 
orders  that  very   morning. 

They  say  that  she  bore  it  very  well  and  wrote  a  sweet 
letter  to  him.  It  sounds  rather  unnatural;  but  one  can 
believe  anything  from  a  person  who  was  under  Liszt's 
influence.  He  has  the  most  wonderful  magnetism.  His 
appearance  is  certainly  original  as  you  see  him  in  his 
soutane,  his  long  hair,  and  his  numerous  moles,  that 
stand  out  in  profile,  whichever  way  he  turns  his  broad 
face. 

But  one  forgets  everything  when  one  hears  him  play. 
He  is  now  fifty-five  years  old.  I  invited  him  to  go  to 
the  Conservatoire  with  me  in  the  box  which  Auber  had 
given  me  for  last  Sunday's  concert.  I  inclose  his  letter 
of  acceptance.     (See  page  164.) 

Auber  often  gives  me  his  box,  which  holds  six  people, 
and  I  have  the  pleasure  of  making  four  people  happy. 
Auber  sits  in  the  back  and  generally  dozes.  We  are  all 
crowded  together  like  sardines.  Auber,  being  the  di- 
rector of  the  Conservatoire,  has,  of  course,  the  best 
box,  except  the  Imperial  one,  which  is  always  empty. 

The  orchestra  played  Wagner's  overture  to  "Tann- 
hauser."  The  applause  was  not  as  enthusiastic  as 
Liszt  thought  it  ought  to  be,  so  he  stood  up  in  the  box, 
and  with  his  great  hands  clapped  so  violently  that  the 

163 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

whole  audience  turned  toward  him,  and,  recognizing 
him  (indeed,  it  would  have  been  difficult  not  to  recog- 
nize him,  such  a  striking  figure  as  he  is),  began  clapping 


^  .  )  •        ^  ,       Urzf /e  L^a^^^~'-*■ 


LISZT    LETTER 

their  hands  for  him.  He  cried,  "Bis!"  And  the  au- 
dience in  chorus  shouted,  "Bis!"  And  the  orchestra 
repeated  the  whole  overture.  Then  the  audience  turned 
again  to  Liszt  and  screamed,  "Vive  Liszt!" 

Auber  said  such  a  thing  had  never  been  seen  or  heard 

164 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

before  in  the  annals  of  these  severe  and  classical  con- 
certs. People  quite  lost  their  heads,  and  Auber,  being 
afraid  that  there  would  be  a  demonstration  at  the 
sortie,  advised  us  to  leave  before  the  end. 

I  think  Liszt  was  very  pleased  with  his  afternoon. 

The  sovereigns  are  working  themselves  to  death,  and 
almost  kilHng  their  attendants.  Prince  Radzivill  said, 
speaking  of  the  King  of  Prussia:  "I  would  have  liked 
him  better  if  he  had  stayed  at  home.  He  has  to  be 
ready  every  morning  at  half-past  eight,  and  is  often 
up  till  three  in  the  morning."  Radzivill  and  the  others 
not  only  have  to  go  to  all  the  balls,  but  they  must  at- 
tend all  the  various  civil,  mihtary,  and  charitable  func- 
tions, and  then  the  Exposition  takes  a  lot  of  time  and 
energy. 

Prince  Umberto  is  here  from  Italy.  When  Princess 
Metternich  asked  him  how  long  he  was  going  to  stay 
he  answered,  with  a  toss  of  his  head  toward  Italy,  "Cela 
depend  des  circonstances.  Les  affaires  vont  tres  mal 
la-bas." 

Aunt    M says   she   wishes   you   had  been  at  a 

matinee  which  Baroness  Nathaniel  Rothschild  gave 
this  afternoon  at  her  beautiful  new  palace  in  the  Fau- 
bourg St.-Honore.  At  the  entrance  there  were  ten 
servants  in  gorgeous  livery,  and  a  huissier  w^ho  rattled 
his  mace  down  on  the  pavement  as  each  guest  passed. 
There  was,  besides  all  the  elite  of  Paris,  an  Archduke 
of  Austria.  I  sang  the  "Ave  Maria"  of  Gounod,  ac- 
companied by  Madame  Norman  Neruda,  an  Austrian 
violiniste,  the  best  woman  violinist  in  the  world.  Baron- 
ess Rothschild  played  the  piano  part. 

12 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Paris,  May  2q,  iSdy. 

Dear  M., — The  Metternichs'  big  ball  last  night  was 
a  splendid  affair,  the  finest  of  the  many  fine  balls.  We 
were  invited  for  ten  o'clock,  and  about  half -past  ten 
every  one  was  there. 

The  Emperor  and  Empress  came  at  eleven  o'clock. 
Waldteufel,  with  full  orchestra,  was  already  playing 
in  the  ballroom  of  the  embassy,  which  was  beautifully 
decorated.  At  twelve  o'clock  the  doors,  or  rather  all 
the  windows  that  had  been  made  into  doors,  were 
opened  into  the  new  ballroom,  which  the  Princess 
Metternich,  with  her  wonderful  taste  and  the  help  of 
Monsieur  Alphand,  had  constructed  in  the  garden,  and 
which  had  transformed  the  embassy  into  a  thousand- 
and-one-nights'  palace. 

The  ballroom  was  a  marvel;  the  walls  were  hung 
with  lilac  and  pink  satin,  and  the  immense  chandelier 
was  one  mass  of  candles  and  flowers;  from  each  panel 
in  the  room  there  were  suspended  baskets  of  flowers  and 
plants,  and  between  the  panels  were  mirrors  which  re- 
flected the  thousands  of  candles. 

One  would  never  have  recognized  the  garden;  it 
was  transformed  into  a  green  glade;  all  the  paths  were 
covered  with  fresh  grass  sod,  making  it  look  like  a  vast 
lawn;  clusters  of  plants  and  palms  seemed  to  be  grow- 
ing everywhere,  as  if  native  to  the  soil;  flower-beds 
by  the  hundreds;  mysterious  grottos  loomed  out  of 
the  background,  and  wonderful  vistas  with  a  cleverly 
painted  perspective.  At  the  same  moment  that  their 
Majesties  entered  this  wonderful  ballroom,  which  no 
one  had  dreamed  of,  the  famous  Johann  Strauss,  brought 

i66 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

from  Vienna  especially  for  this  occasion,  stood  waiting 
with  uplifted  baton  and  struck  up  the  "Blue  Danube," 
heard  for  the  first  time  in  Paris. 

When  their  Majesties  approached  the  huge  plate- 
glass  window  opening  into  the  garden  a  full-fledged 
cascade  fell  over  the  stucco  rocks,  and  powerful  Bengal 
lights,  red  and  green,  made  a  most  magical  effect:  the 
water  looked  like  a  torrent  of  fiery  lava  en  miniature. 
It  was  thrilling. 

No  one  thought  of  dancing;  every  one  wanted  to 
listen  to  the  waltz.  And  how  Strauss  played  it ! .  .  .  With 
what  fire  and  entrain!  We  had  thought  Waldteufel 
perfect;  but  when  you  heard  Strauss  you  said  to  your- 
self you  had  never  heard  a  waltz  before.  The  musi- 
cians were  partly  hidden  by  gigantic  palmettos,  plants, 
and  pots  of  flowers  arranged  in  the  most  attractive  way. 
But  he! — Johann  Strauss! — stood  well  in  front,  looking 
very  handsome,  very  Austrian,  and  very  pleased  with 
himself. 

Then  came  the  quadrille  d'honneur.  The  Emperor 
danced  with  the  Queen  of  Belgium,  the  Crown  Prince 
of  Prussia  with  the  Empress,  the  King  of  Belgium  with 
the  Princess  Mathilde,  the  Prince  Leuchtenberg  with 
the  Princess  Metternich. 

The  cotillon  was  led  by  Count  Deym  and  Count 
Bergen,  and  they  led  it  to  perfection;  there  was  not  a 
hitch  anywhere.  Every  one  was  animated  and  gay; 
certainly  the  music  was  inspiring  enough  to  have  made 
an  Egyptian  mummy  get  out  of  his  sarcophagus  and 
caper  about.  I  danced  with  a  German  Durchlaucht, 
who,  though  far  in  the  sear  and  yellow  leaf,  danced  like 
a  school-boy,  standing  for  hours  with  his  arm  around 

167 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

my  waist  before  venturing  (he  could  only  start  when 
the  tune  commenced),  counting  one — two — three  under 
his  breath,  which  made  me,  his  partner,  feel  like  a  per- 
fect fool.  When  at  last  he  made  up  his  mind  to  start 
nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  could  have  stopped  him. 
He  hunched  up  his  shoulders  to  his  ears,  arched  his  leg 
like  a  prancing  horse,  and  off  we  went  on  our  wild 
career,  lurching  into  every  couple  on  the  floor,  and 
bumping  into  all  the  outsiders.  When  we  were  not 
careering  together,  he  sat  glued  to  his  chair,  refusing 
to  dance.  If  any  lady  came  up  with  a  favor  he  would 
say,  "I  am  a  little  out  of  breath;  I  will  come  and  fetch 
you  later."  And  then  he  would  put  the  favor  in  his 
pocket  and  never  go  near  her.  He  seized  everything 
in  the  way  of  favors  that  came  his  way;  some  he  gave 
to  me,  and  the  rest  he  took  home  to  his  small  chil- 
dren. 

I  was  glad,  all  the  same,  to  have  him  for  a  partner, 
as,  being  a  Durchlaucht,  he  was  entitled  to  a  seat  in  the 
front  row,  and  I  preferred  prancing  about  with  my 
hochgeboren  high-stepper  to  having  to  take  a  back 
seat  in  the  third  row  with  a  minor  geboren.  After  my 
partner  and  I  had  bounded  about  and  butted  into  every 
living  thing  on  the  floor  I  brought  him  to  anchor  near 
his  chair  by  clutching  his  Golden  Fleece  chain  which 
hung  around  his  neck.  I  felt  like  singing  Tennyson's 
"Home  I  brought  my  warrior  (half)  dead."  He  was 
puffing  and  blowing,  the  perspiration  glazing  his  face, 
his  yellow  hair  matted  on  his  forehead,  and  his  mus- 
taches all  out  of  kilter. 

I  really  felt  sorry  for  him,  and  wondered  why  he 
exerted  himself   so   much,  when   he   could  have   been 

i68 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

quietly  seated  watching  others,  or,  better  still,  at  home 
in  bed. 

The  supper  was  served  at  one  o'clock.  Their  Maj- 
esties the  King  and  Queen  of  Belgium,  Prince  Alfred, 
the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Prussia,  the  Prince  of  Saxe- 
Weimar,  and  all  the  other  gros  bonnets — too  many  to 
write  about — went  up-stairs  through  an  avenue  of 
plants  and  palms  to  a  salon  arranged  especially  for 
them  where  there  were  two  large  tables.  The  Emperor 
presided  at  one  and  the  Empress  at  the  other.  Besides 
the  salle  h  manger  and  some  smaller  salons,  two  enor- 
mous tents  were  put  up  in  the  garden,  which  contained 
numerous  tables,  holding  about  ten  people  each,  and 
lighted  by  masses  of  candles  and  festooned  with  bright- 
colored  Chinese  lanterns.  Prince  Metternich  told  me 
later  that  the  candles  were  replaced  three  times  during 
the  evening. 

The  favors  for  the  cotillon  were  very  pretty,  most  of 
them  brought  from  Vienna.  One  of  the  prettiest  was 
fans  of  gray  wood  with  " Ambassade  d'Autriche,  2  8th  May, 
1867,"  painted  in  blue  forget-me-nots. 

We  danced  "till  morning  did  appear,"  and  it  appeared 
only  too  soon.  The  cotillon  finished  at  half-past  five, 
and  the  daylight  poured  in,  making  us  all  look  ghastly, 
especially  my  sear  and  yellow  leaf,  whose  children  must 
have  wondered  why  papa  kam  so  spat  nach  hause. 


Paris,  i86y. 

Last  week,  in  the  beautiful  palace  built  by  Egypt  for 
the  Exposition,  there  was  arranged  a  sort  of  entertain- 
rnent  for  the  Viceroy,  to  which  we  were  invited  with 

169 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

the  Prince  and  Princess  Metternich.  This  palace  is  a 
large,  square,  white  building  of  oriental  ornamentation 
and  architecture,  with  a  courtyard  in  the  center, 
where  we  were  received  by  the  Khedive  and  his  suite. 
A  fountain  was  playing  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard 
of  marble,  surrounded  by  palmettos  and  plants  of  every 
description.  A  band  of  Turkish  musicians  were  seated 
cross-legged  in  one  of  the  corners  playing  on  their  weird 
instruments,  and  making  what  they  seemed  to  think 
was  music.  We  sat  in  low  basket-chairs,  our  feet  rest- 
ing on  the  richest  of  oriental  rugs,  and  admired  the 
graceful  movements  of  the  dancing-girls,  who  had  not 
more  space  than  an  ordinary  square  rug  to  dance  upon. 
There  were  also  some  jugglers,  who  performed  the  most 
marvelous  and  incomprehensible  tricks  with  only  an 
apparently  transparent  basket,  from  which  they  pro- 
duced every  imaginable  object. 

Coffee  a  la  Turque  was  served  in  small  cups  with  their 
silver  filigree  undercup,  and  Turkish  paste  flavored  with 
attar  of  roses,  and  nauseatingly  sweet,  was  passed  about, 
with  a  glass  of  water  to  wash  it  down.  Also  cigarettes 
of  every  description  were  lavishly  strewn  on  all  the 
little  tables,  and  hovering  about  us  all  the  time  were 
the  thin-legged,  turbaned  black  menials  with  baggy  silk 
trousers  and  bright  silk  sashes. 

Everything  was  so  Oriental  that,  had  I  stayed  there 
a  little  longer,  I  should  not  have  been  surprised  to  see 
myself  sitting  cross-legged  on  a  divan  smoking  a  nar- 
ghile. I  said  as  much  as  this  to  the  Khedive,  who  said, 
in  his  funny  pigeon-French-English,  "Alas!  Were  it 
so!" 

I  cast  my  eyes  down  and  put  on  my  sainte-ni-touche 

170 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

air,  which  at  times  I  can  assume,  and  as  I  looked  at  his 
Highness 's  dusky  suite,  who  did  not  look  over  and  above 
immaculate,  in  spite  of  the  Mussulman's  Mussulmania 
for  washing,  I  thanked  my  stars  that  it  "were  not  so." 

The  interpreter  who  was  on  duty  said  to  Prince 
Metternich:  "Mussulmans  drink  no  wine,  nor  does  the 
Prophet  allow  them  to  eat  off  silver.  Therefore,  to 
ease  our  consciences"  (he  said,  mettre  nos  consciences 
a  convert),  "  we  tell  them  that  the  silver  plates  on  which 
they  eat  are  iron  plated  with  silver.  They  think  the 
forks  are  also  iron,  otherwise  they  would  eat  with  their 
fingers." 

The  interpreter  added  that  Mussulmans  did  not  think 
the  Parisian  newspapers  very  interesting,  because  they 
contained  so  few  crimes  and  no  murders  worth  men- 
tioning. What  an  insight  this  gives  of  the  condition 
of  their  country  and  the  tenor  of  their  papers! 

We  took  our  leave  of  the  amiable  Khedive,  who  ex- 
pressed the  hope  that  we  would  soon  meet  again. 

Before  h'is  departure  from  Paris  there  came  a  pack- 
age with  the  card  of  one  of  his  gentlemen,  begging  me, 
de  la  part  de  Monseigneur,  to  accept  the  "accompanying 
souvenir."  The  package  contained  two  enameled  brace- 
lets of  the  finest  oriental  work  in  red-and-green,  studded 
with  emeralds.  He  sent  an  equally  gorgeous  brooch  to 
the  Princess  Metternich. 

Paris,  June,  1867. 

Dear  M., — I  must  write  you  about  something  amus- 
ing which  happened  to-day.  Prince  Oscar  was  most 
desirous  of  seeing  Delsarte,  having  heard  him  so  much 
spoken  of.     I  promised  to  try  to  arrange  an  interview, 

171 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  wrote  to  Delsarte  to  ask  him  to  come  to  meet  the 
Prince  at  our  house.  I  received  this  characteristic 
answer,  "I  have  no  time  to  make  visits.  If  his  High- 
ness will  come  to  see  me  I  shall  be  pleased,"  and  men- 
tioned a  day  and  an  hour.     Prince  Oscar,  Monsieur  Due, 

the  Swedish  secretary.  Mademoiselle  W ,  and  I  went 

at  the  appointed  time,  mounted  Delsarte 's  tiresome 
stairs,  and  waited  patiently  in  his  salon  while  he  finished 
a  lesson. 

Monsieur  Due  was  very  indignant  at  this  sans-g^ne, 
and  apologized  for  Delsarte's  want  of  courtesy;  but 
the  Prince  did  not  mind,  and  occupied  himself  with 
looking  at  Delsarte's  old  poetry-books  and  albums. 

Finally  Delsarte  entered  and  graciously  received  his 
royal  visitor.  The  Prince  was  most  affable  and  lis- 
tened to  Delsarte's  fantastic  theories,  pretending  to 
be  interested  in  the  explanation  of  the  cartoons,  and 
began  to  discuss  the  art  of  teaching,  which  exasperated 
Delsarte  to  the  verge  of  impoliteness. 

Prince  Oscar  offered  to  sing  a  Swedish  song,  a  very- 
simple  peasant  song,  which  he  sang  very  well,  I  thought. 
The  Swedish  language  is  lovely  for  singing,  almost  as 
good  as  Italian.  We  looked  for  some  words  of  praise; 
but  Delsarte,  adopting  regency  manners,  which  he  can 
on  occasions,  said,  in  a  most  insinuating  voice :  ' '  Your 
Highness  is  destined  to  become  a  king,  one  of  these 
days.     Is  it  not  so?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Prince,  wondering  what  was 
coming  next. 

"You  will  have  great  responsibilities  and  a  great  deal 
to  occupy  your  mind?" 

"Without  doubt." 

172 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"You  will  not  have  time  to  devote  yourself  to  art?" 

"I  fear  not." 

"Eh  bien!"  said  Delsarte,  and  we  expected  pearls 
to  drop  from  his  mouth,  "eh  .bien!  If  ever  I  am 
fortunate  enough  to  visit  your  country,  I  hope  you  will 
allow  me  to  pay  my  most  humble  respects  to  you." 

"How  horribly  impolite,"  said  the  indignant  Monsieur 
Due.     "He  ought  to  have  his  ears  boxed!" 

Prince  Oscar  took  it  quite  kindly,  and,  giving  Del- 
sarte a  clap  on  his  back  which  I  am  sure  made  his 
shoulders  twinge,  said:  "You  are  right;  I  shall  have 
other  things  to  think  of.  There" — pointing  to  diagram 
six  on  the  wall,  depicting  horror,  with  open  mouth  and 
gaping  eyes — "is  the  expression  I  shall  have  when  I 
think  of  music  and  music- teachers." 

Delsarte,  feeling  that  he  had  overstepped  the  mark, 
said,  "Perhaps,  nion  Prince,  you  will  sing  something 
in  French  for  me." 

Prince  Oscar,  drawing  himself  up  his  whole  six  feet 
and  four,  glanced  down  at  little  Delsarte  and  said, 
"Mon  cher  Monsieur,  have  you  ever  read  the  English 
poets?" 

Delsarte  looked  unutterable  things;  I  blushed  for 
my  teacher. 

"When  I  come  again  to  Paris,"  the  Prince  continued, 
"I  will  come  to  see  you.  Adieu!"  and  left  without 
further  ceremony. 

We  followed  him  down  the  slippery  stairs  in  silence. 

Prince  Oscar  thought  this  little  episode  a  great  joke, 
and  repeated  it  to  many  people. 

That  same  evening  there  was  a  soiree  musicale  given 
for  him  by  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  (Marquis  de 

173 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY. 

Moustier).  The  Prince  was  begged  to  sing,  which  he 
did  three  or  four  times.  Every  one  was  delighted  to 
hear  the  Swedish  songs.  Ambroise  Thomas,  who  was 
there,  said  that  he  thought  they  were  exquisite,  es- 
pecially the  peasant  song,  which  he  had  introduced 
into  his  new  opera  of  "Hamlet."  The  Prince  and  I 
sang  the  duet,  'T  Rosens  duft."  He  was  the  lion  of  the 
evening,  and  I  think  that  he  was  very  pleased.  I 
hoped  that  he  had  forgotten  the  unpleasant  incident 
of  the  morning  and  Delsarte,  of  whom  Monsieur  Due 
cleverly  remarked,    "  Qui  s'y  frotte  s'y  pique — " 

Paris,  July,  iSdy. 

The  distribution  of  prizes  for  the  Exposition  took 
place  last  Thursday  at  the  Palais  de  ITndustrie.  It 
was  a  magnificent  affair  and  a  very  hot  one.  You  may 
imagine  what  the  heat  and  glare  must  have  been  at 
two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  on  a  hot  July  day.  I  was 
glad  that  I  was  not  old  and  wrinkled,  for  every  imper- 
fection shone  with  magnified  intensity. 

There  was  a  vast  platform  erected  in  the  middle  of 
the  building,  which  was  covered  with  a  red  carpet, 
and  over  which  hung  an  enormous  canopy  of  red  velvet 
and  curtains  of  velvet  with  the  eagle  of  Napoleon. 
The  Emperor  and  Empress  sat,  of  course,  in  the  center, 
and  on  each  side  were  the  foreign  sovereigns;  behind 
them  were  their  suites  and  the  Imperial  family.  The 
diplomatic  corps  had  their  places  on  the  right  of  the 
tribune. 

The  gentlemen,  splendid  in  their  gala  uniforms,  were 
covered  with   decorations,   and   all   the  ladies  present 

174 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

were  en  grande  toilette  and  low-necked,  and  displayed 
every  jewel  they  possessed. 

The  building,  huge  as  it  was,  was  packed  full,  every 
available  seat  occupied. 

The  Prince  Imperial  distributed  the  prizes.  He 
looked  very  dignified  when  he  handed  the  victors  their 
different  medals,  accompanying  each  gift  with  his  sweet 
and  winning  smile. 

When  Count  Zichy,  of  Hungary,  mounted  the  steps 
of  the  throne  to  receive  his  medal  (he  got  a  prize  for  his 
Hungarian  wines)  there  was  a  general  murmur  of  ad- 
miration, and  I  must  say  that  he  did  look  gorgeous  in 
his  national  costume,  which  is  a  most  striking  one. 
He  had  on  all  his  famous  turquoises.  His  mantle  and 
coat  underneath,  and  everything  except  his  top-boots, 
were  encrusted  with  turquoises,  some  of  them  as  big 
as  hens'  eggs.  They  say,  when  he  appears  on  a  gala 
occasion  in  his  country,  his  horse's  trappings  and  saddle 
are  covered  with  turquoises. 

The  Sultan  sat  on  the  right  of  the  Empress.  You 
never  saw  anything  half  as  splendid!  A  shopful  of 
jewelry  could  not  compare  to  him.  He  had  a  collier 
of  pearls  which  might  have  made  a  Cleopatra  green  with 
jealousy.  He  had  an  enormous  diamond  which  held 
the  high  aigrette  in  place  on  his  fez  and  the  Great 
Mogul  (I  was  so  told)  fastened  on  his  breast.  His  cos- 
tume was  magnificent,  and  his  sabre — which  I  suppose 
has  cut  off  a  head  or  so — -was  a  blaze  of  jewels.  He  was 
the  point  de  mire  of  all  eyes;  especially  when  the  rays 
of  the  sun  caught  the  rays  of  his  diamonds  he  blazed 
like  the  sun  itself.  The  sun  did  all  it  could  in  the  way 
of  blazing  that  day.     I  know  that  I  never  felt  anything 

175 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

like  the  heat  in  that  gigantic  hot-house,  the  sun  pouring 
through  each  pane  of  glass  and  nothing  to  protect  one 
against  it.    I  felt  like  an  exotic  flower  unfolding  its  petals. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  little  scene,  and  I  think  that 
every  one  was  impressed  when  the  Prince  Imperial  went 
toward  the  King  of  Holland  to  hand  him  a  medal 
(probably  for  Dutch  cheese).  The  tall,  stately  King 
rose  from  his  seat,  and  on  receiving  it  bowed  deeply 
with  great  ceremony.  The  Prince  made  a  respectful 
and  graceful  bow  in  response,  then  the  King  stooped 
down  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

I  was  tremendously  interested  when  the  American 
exhibitors  came  forward;  there  were  many  of  them, 
quite  a  procession.  They  looked  very  distinguished  in 
their  simple  dress-coats,  without  any  decorations.  I 
was  so  glad. 

When  it  was  all  over  it  was  delightful  to  get  out  into 
the  fresh  air,  even  if  we  had  to  stand  and  wait  patiently 
about  like  Mary's  little  lamb  until  the  carriage  did 
appear,  for  we  had  either  to  wait  or  to  worm  our  way, 
risking  horses'  tails  and  hoofs  through  the  surging  crowd 
of  bedecked  men  and  women,  who  were  all  clamoring 
for  their  servants  and  carriages. 

The  coachmen  were  swearing  and  shouting  as  only 
French  coachmen  can  do  on  such  occasions  as  this. 
The  line  of  carriages  reached  almost  the  whole  way  down 
the  Champs  filysees.  We  finally  did  find  ours,  and  I 
was  glad  to  seat  myself  in  it.  I  had  had  the  forethought 
to  put  my  hat  and  mantle  in,  as  we  intended  to  drive 
out  to  Petit  Val  for  dinner.  I  put  my  hat  over  my 
tiara  and  my  mantle  on  my  bare  shoulders,  and  en- 
joyed driving  through  the  shady  streets. 

176 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Prince  Metternich  came  out  here  the  other  day.  I 
had  not  seen  him  since  the  tragic  death  of  Emperor 
Maximilian  in  Mexico.  I  never  would  have  beHeved 
that  he  could  be  so  affected  as  he  seemed  to  be  by  this. 
He  cried  Hke  a  baby  when  he  told  us  of  the  Emperor's 
last  days,  of  his  courage  and  fortitude.  It  seems  that, 
just  as  he  was  going  to  be  shot,  he  went  to  each  of  the 
men  and  gave  them  a  twenty-franc  gold  piece,  and  said, 
"I  beg  you  to  shoot  straight  at  my  heart." 

How  dreadful  it  must  have  been! 

Prince  Metternich  was  most  indignant  at  Rochefort, 
and  says  he  can  never  forgive  him  because,  in  an  article 
in  La  Lanterne,  he  called  the  royal  martyr  "  the  Arch- 
dupe.  ' '    Auber  said : 

"You  must  not  forget  that  Rochefort  would  rather 
sell  his  soul  than  lose  an  occasion  to  make  a  clever 
remark." 

"Yes,  I  know,"  moaned  the  Prince.  "But  how  can 
one  be  so  cruel?" 

"C'est  un  mauvais  drole,"  Auber  answered  (don't 
think  Auber  meant  that  Rochefort  was  droll;  on  the 
contrary,  this  is  a  neat  way  that  the  French  have 
of  calling  a  man  the  worst  kind  of  a  scamp),  and  added, 
"  Rochefort 's  brains  are  made  of  petards, ''which  is  the 
French  for  firecrackers. 

Auber  told  many  anecdotes,  I  fancy  he  wanted  to 
cheer  Prince  Metternich  up  a  little.  One  of  them  was 
that,  on  taking  leave  of  the  Emperor,  the  Shah  had 
said: 

"Sire,  your  Paris  is  wonderful,  your  palaces  splendid, 
and  your  horses  magnificent,  but,"  waving  his  hand  tow- 
ard the  mature  but  noble  dames  d'honneur  with  an  ex- 

177 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pression  of  disapproval,  "you  must  change  all  that." 
Imagine  what  their  feelings  would  have  been  had  they 
heard  him. 

Paris,  August,  1867. 

Dear  M., — I  thought  there  would  be  a  little  rest  for 
me  after  the  distribution  of  prizes  and  before  going  to 
Dinard;  but  repose  is  a  thing,  it  seems,  that  I  am 
destined  never  to  get. 

Monday  morning  I  received  a  letter  from  Princess 
Metternich  saying  that  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs 
had  sent  her  his  box  for  that  evening,  to  hear  Schneider 
in  "La  Belle  Helene,"  adding  that  Cora  Pearl  was  to 
appear  as  Cupidon  as  an  extra  attraction,  and  asked  if 
we  would  dine  with  them  first,  and  go  afterward  to  the 
theater. 

I  could  not  resist  an  invitation  from  these  two  de- 
lightful people,  therefore  we  drove  into  Paris  and 
reached  the  embassy  at  half-past  six,  the  hour  named 
for  dinner. 

Prince  Metternich  told  us  that  he  had  had  a  visit 
in  the  afternoon  from  Monsieur  Due,  the  Swedish  secre- 
tary, who  had  been  on  the  verge  of  desperation  on 
account  of  his  not  having  been  able  to  secure  a  suitable 
box  for  King  Charles  XIV.  of  Sweden,  who  arrived  last 
night  to  spend  a  few  days  here.  He  wished  to  see 
Schneider  in  "La  Belle  Helene."  Monsieur  Due  had 
gone  to  the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  and  suggested 
that  the  Minister  offer  his  box;  but  that  had  al- 
ready been  given  to  the  Metternichs.  When  Prince 
Metternich  was  informed  of  this  he  did  not  hesitate  to 
place  the  box  in  question  at  the  King's  disposal;  but, 

178 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

not  to  disappoint  the  Princess  and  me,  he  had  taken  an 
ordinary  box  opposite.  The  King  was  already  in  his 
loge  when  we  arrived.  He  is  a  large,  handsome  man 
with  a  full,  black  beard,  and  has  a  very  pleasant  face. 

Between  the  first  and  second  acts  Monsieur  Due 
came  to  Prince  Metternich  and  told  him  that  the  King 
desired  to  see  him.  Of  course  the  Prince  went  directly, 
and  returned  delighted  with  the  King's  affability,  and 
to  our  great  surprise  brought  us  a  message  from  the 
King,  asking  us  all  to  come  to  his  box  and  join  him,  and 
proposing  to  send  Monsieur  Due  and  his  gentleman-in- 
waiting  to  take  our  places  in  our  box. 

We  accepted  with  pleasure,  and  passed  the  rest  of 
the  evening  in  the  charming  society  of  the  most  amiable 
of  kings.  He  said  to  me  that  "Oscar,"  as  he  called 
his  brother  (Prince  Oscar,  the  hereditary  Prince),  had 
spoken  about  me  and  our  singing  the  duet  written  by 
his  brother.  Prince  Gustave,  and  asked  how  I  managed 
about  the  Swedish  words.  I  replied  that  Prince  Oscar 
had  taught  them  to  me  during  the  dinner  preceding  the 
singing. 

"Could  you  understand  the  words?"  he  asked. 

"No,"  I  replied.  "I  only  know  that  it  was  something 
about  London  and  Emma." 

The  King  laughed  most  heartily,  and  said,  "I  shall 
tell  that  to  Oscar  when  I  go  home,  and  he  will  see  how 
well  you  profited  by  his  lessons." 

We  were  all  immensely  amused  at  Cora  Pearl's  ap- 
pearance; it  was  her  debut  as  an  actress.  I  never  saw 
any  one  look  so  sheepish  as  she  did,  in  spite  of  her  paint 
and  powder  and  beautiful  legs.  She  wore  high-heeled 
slippers,   so  high  that  she  could  hardly  walk,   which 

179 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

made  her  even  more  awkward  than  she  naturally  was. 
She  only  had  a  few  lines  to  sing,  and  this  she  did  so 
badly  that  people  nearly  hissed  her. 

She  was  evidently  engaged  as  a  drawing-card;  but 
the  only  thing  she  drew  was  ridicule  on  herself. 

During  the  second  act  Lord  Lyons  came  into  the  box. 
He  had  known  the  King  before,  and,  having  heard  from 
the  Minister  of  Foreign  Affairs  that  the  King  was  at 
the  theater,  went  there  to  pay  his  respects.  The  King, 
noticing  that  he  had  a  decoration  on,  said  in  French: 
"Please  take  that  off;  I  am  here  incognito.  To-morrow 
I  shall  be  official;  then  you  can  put  it  on."  So  Lord 
Lyons  took  off  his  star  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  He 
wanted  to  go  after  the  second  act,  but  the  King  said: 
"Monsieur  Due  has  arranged  a  supper  for  us  at  La 
Maison  d'Or.  You  must  come  also."  Of  course  Lord 
Lyons  did  not  refuse. 

Monsieur  Due  left  the  box  in  advance  of  the  rest  of 
us,  in  order  to  arrange  everything  before  the  King's 
arrival.  The  King  called  to  him,  as  he  opened  the  door, 
"Don't  forget  the  ecrevisses  a  la  Bordelaise ;  I  have 
been  looking  forward  to  them  for  a  long  time." 

After  the  performance,  with  which  the  King  was  de- 
lighted (especially  with  Hortense  Schneider's  song,  "Dis- 
moi,  Venus,  pourquoi,"  etc.),  we  drove  to  the  Maison 
d'Or,  where  we  found  Monsieur  Due  awaiting  us.  We 
asked  at  what  time  the  carriages  should  come  back. 
He  said:  "Not  before  two  o'clock.  His  Majesty  never 
retires  before."  We  were  then  shown  into  a  salon, 
where  the  Princess  Metternich  and  I  were  asked  by  the 
King  to  take  off  our  hats.  "It  is  so  much  more  cozy," 
he  said.     So  off  our  hats  came.     We  had  not  been  seated 

i8o 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ten  minutes  when  we  heard  some  very  loud  talking  and 
much  discussion  in  the  corridor  outside.  Lord  Lyons, 
who  was  nearest  the  door,  jumped  up  to  see  what  the 
matter  was,  opened  the  door,  and  peeped  out. 

"  Oh !"  said  he.  "  It  is  the  Duke  of  Brims  wick  making 
a  row;  he  is  half-seas  over!"  The  King  turned  to 
Monsieur  Due  (the  King  does  not  speak  English)  and 
said,  "What  did  Lord  Lyons  say?"  Monsieur  Due's 
English  did  not  go  very  far,  but  he  translated  into 
Swedish  what  he  had  understood  Lord  Lyons  to  say. 

The  ICing  seemed  very  puzzled  and,  addressing  Lord 
Lyons,  said: 

"Was  not  the  Duke  of  Bnmswick  obliged  to  leave 
England  for  fear  of  being  arrested?"  Lord  Lyons 
coughed  discreetly,  and  the  King  went  on:  "If  I  remem- 
ber rightly,  the  Duke,  who  was  in  the  royal  box,  shot 
at  and  killed  a  danseuse  who  was  on  the  stage !  And  did 
he  not  leave  England  in  a  balloon?  It  always  seemed 
such  an  extraordinary  thing.  Was  it  true?"  Lord 
Lyons  cautiously  answered  that  people  had  said  all 
that;  but  it  was  some  time  ago,  and  added,  diplomati- 
cally, that  he  had  forgotten  all  the  details. 

"And  I  understood,"  said  his  Majesty,  "that  he  can 
never  go  back  there  again." 

"You  are  right.  He  cannot  go  back  to  England, 
your  Majesty." 

"Oh!  don't  Majesty  me.  To-night  I  am  a  simple 
bourgeois,"  the  King  interrupted,  smilingly  shaking  his 
finger.  "But  tell  me,  how  can  the  Duke  dare  return 
there  now?" 

"He  does  not  dare,"  repeated  Lord  Lyons.  "He 
can  never  go  back." 

J3  i8i 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"But,"  insisted  the  King,  "my  good  Monsieur  Du6 
says  that  he  is  on  his  way  there  at  this  moment." 

Lord  Lyons  replied,  "I  think  Monsieur  Due  must 
be  mistaken,  for  the  Duke  is  out  there  in  the  corridor 
making  all  this  [I  am  sure  it  was  on  his  lips  to  say  ' '  devil 
of  a  row,"  but  he  politely  said]  noise.'' 

Monsieur  Due  then  remarked,  "Did  I  not  hear  you 
say  that  he  was  half  way  across  the  channel?" 

"I  certainly  did  not  say  that.  What  I  did  say  was 
that  he  was  'half- seas  over,'  which  is  a  slang  expression 
we  use  in  England  instead  of  saying  tipsy,  or  dans  les 
vignes  du  Seigneur,  so  prettily  put  by  the  French. 

The  King  laughed  very  much  at  this  quid  pro  quo 
and,  looking  at  Monsieur  Due,  said,  "  I  thought  your 
English  more  up  to  the  mark." 

The  King  was  immediately  fired  with  a  desire  to  see 
the  famous  Duke  who  had  dared  to  cross  the  channel 
in  a  balloon  rather  than  run  the  risk  of  being  shut  up 
in  prison,  and  we  all  waited  with  impatience  to  see 
whether  Lord  Lyons's  persuasive  powers  went  so  far  as 
getting  the  Duke  to  show  himself.  Well,  they  did, 
and  both  the  gentlemen  came  into  the  salon.  The 
Duke  bowed  low  and  did  not  lose  his  balance.  In  fact, 
for  a  man  half-seas  over,  I  thought  he  looked  as  if  he 
could  get  to  the  end  of  his  journey  without  disgrace. 
He  said,  very  politely,  "I  am  afraid  I  have  disturbed 
you,  but  this  is  the  salon  which  has  always  been  put 
aside  for  me  every  night,  and  I  was  surprised  to  learn 
that  it  was  occupied." 

The  Duke  is,  or  rather  would  have  been,  a  very  hand- 
some man  if  he  had  not  such  watery  eyes  and  such  a 
weak  mouth;  and  then  he  wore  the  funniest-looking 

182 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

wig  I  ever  saw.  It  was  made  out  of  black  (the  blackest) 
sewing-silk  and  plastered  down  over  his  ears.  I  wonder 
if  it  was  a  disguise,  or  if  he  thought  any  one  would  ever 
really  take  it  for  his  own  hair. 

The  King  was  very  nice  to  him,  and  did  not  seem  in 
the  least  to  mind  his  being  dans  les  vignes.  I  fancy, 
from  what  Monsieur  Due  said,  that  in  Sweden  people 
are  used  to  see  their  friends  always  in  Seigneurial  vine- 
yards— they  never  see  them  anywhere  else!  But  he 
exaggerates,   no  doubt. 

The  King  said  to  the  Duke  of  Brunswick,  "Will  you 
not  sup  with  us  to-night?" 

"I  thank  your  Majesty,  but  I  must  crave  permission 
to  return,  for  I  have  some  ladies  supping  with  me, 
including  the  Cupidon  of  to-night." 

"Tell  her,"  said  the  King,  "if  she  wears  such  high 
heels  she  will  come  to  grief." 

"It  will  not  be  the  first  time,"  answered  the  Duke, 
with  a  laugh.  "But  don't  ask  me  to  say  anything  like 
that  to  her;  she  would  box  my  ears!"  Seeing  the 
waiter  making  signs  to  him,  the  Duke  then  made  a 
profound  bow  and,  stroking  his  sewing-silk  locks, 
left  us. 

The  universal  verdict  on  him  was  Quel  cretin! 

We  had  a  very  pleasant  supper,  and  a  most  uncere- 
monious one,  as  much  so  as  is  possible  where  there  is 
royalty. 

The  King  said  that  he  was  going  to  be  official  all  the 
next  day,  but  that  he  would  like  to  go  to  the  Exposition. 
Prince  Mettemich  proposed  a  cup  of  tea  and  the  delicious 
hot  rolls  they  turn  out  at  the  Vienna  restaurant.  The 
King  was  delighted  to  accept,  and  named  the  hour  of 

183 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

half -past  four  in  the  afternoon.  We  were  also  bidden, 
for  which  I  was  much  pleased.  King  Carl  is  the  most 
delightful  and  fascinating  of  monarchs,  and  quite  worthy 
to  be  his  brother's  brother.  To-morrow  he  is  going  to 
be  still  more  official,  for  he  dines  at  the  Tuileries,  and 
there  is  a  gala  performance  at  the  opera;  Christine 
Nilsson  is  going  to  sing  "Faust"  with  Nicolini  and 
Faure. 

To-morrow  we  leave  for  Dinard,  where  there  will  be 
no  majesties  nor  Exposition;  just  plain  bread  and 
butter  and  Brittany  cider,  which  is  as  hard  as  a  relent- 
less parent. 

CoMPiEGNE,  November  27,  1868. 

When  the  inclosed  invitation  came  my  father-in- 
law  wet-blanketed  the  whole  thing,  and  I  was  broken- 
hearted. The  Duke  de  Persigny,  who  happened  to  be 
at  Petit  Val  at  that  moment,  sympathized  with  me  and 
tried  to  change  the  paternal  mind ;  but  the  paternal  mind 
was  obdurate,  and  all  pleadings  were,  alas !  in  vain. 

Maison  Palais  des  Tuileries,  le  2  p*"^«  1868. 

DE   l'EmPEREUR 

Premier  Chambellan 

Monsieur, 
Par  ordre  de  I'Empereur,  j'ai  I'honneur  de  vous   pr^venir  que 
vous  etes  invite,  ainsi  que  Madame  Ch.  Moulton,  k  passer  9  jours 
au  Palais  de  Compidgne,  du  27  g^'^^  au  5  decembre. 

Des  voitures  de  la  Cour  vous  attendront  le  27,  k  I'arriv^e  k  Com- 
pi^gne  du  train  partant  de  Paris  k  2  heures  y^  pour  vous  conduire 
au  Palais. 
Agr^ez,  Monsieur,  I'assurance  de  ma  consideration  tres  distingu^e. 

Le  Premier  Chambellan, 

Y^^  de  Laferri^re, 
Monsieur  Ch.  Moulton. 

184 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

My  father-in-law  thought  it  cost  too  much — my 
toilettes,  the  necessary  outlay,  and  especially  the  pour- 
boires.  He  said  that  it  was  a  lot  of  money,  and  added, 
in  his  most  choice  French,  "Le  jeu  [he  pronounced  it 
*jew']  ne  valait  pas  la  chandelle."  He  was  right  from 
his  point  of  view,  for  he  had  none  of  the  jeu  and  all  of 
the  chandelle.  I  pined  and  pouted  the  whole  day,  and 
considered  myself  the  most  down-trodden  mortal  in 
existence. 

Imagine  my  delight,  a  few  days  later,  to  receive  a 
second  document,  informing  us  that  our  names  had 
been  re-entered  on  the  list,  and  that  we  were  expected, 
all  the  same,  on  the  27th  to  stay  nine  days.  At  the 
same  time  there  came  a  note  from  the  Duke  de 
Persigny,  in  which  he  said,  "Their  Majesties  desired  us 
particularly  to  come. ' '  And  he  added : ' '  Tell  your  father- 
in-law  that  the  question  of  pourboires  has  been  settled 
now  and  forever.  No  more  pourboires  to  be  given  nor 
taken  at  Compiegne." 

Then  Mr.  M gave  his  consent,  and  I  was  bliss- 
fully happy. 

It  seems  that  the  Emperor's  attention  had  been  called 
to  the  many  very  disagreeable  articles  in  the  news- 
papers on  the  subject  of  the  extravagant  pourboires 
exacted  at  Compiegne.  The  Emperor  was  very  much 
annoyed,  and  gave  immediate  orders  to  suppress  this 
system,  which  had  been  going  on  for  years  without  his 
knowledge. 

Last  night  we  stayed  in  Paris,  to  be  ready  at  half- 
past  two  this  afternoon.  To  describe  our  departure, 
arrival,  and  reception  would  only  be  to  repeat  what  I 
have  already  written  last  year.     Among  the  fifty  or 

185 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

sixty  guests  there  were  many  who  were  here  then.  In 
addition  there  are  Duke  d'Albe,  with  his  daughters; 
Baron  Beyens,  the  Belgian  Minister;  Mr.  Mallet,  of  the 
English  Embassy;  Mr.  Due,  of  the  Swedish  Legation; 
the  poet.  Prosper  Merimee;  and  many,  of  course,  I  do 
not   know. 

Singularly  enough,  we  were  shown  into  the  same  apart- 
ment we  had  before,  which  made  us  feel  quite  at  home. 
We  found  tea,  chocolate,  and  cakes  on  the  table,  of 
which  I  partook  with  enthusiasm,  and  then  enjoyed  an 
hour's  rest  before  dressing  for  dinner. 

We  met  at  seven  o'clock  in  the  Salle  des  FHes,  the 
only  room  in  this  huge  chateau  large  enough  to  contain 
all  the  party  here  (I  suppose  there  must  be  one  hundred 
and  twenty  people),  for  which  reason  it  serves  both  as 
reception   and   ballroom. 

The  Empress  looked  superb  in  a  gown  of  an  exquisite 
shade  of  lilac;  she  wore  her  beautiful  pearls  and  a  tiara 
of  diamonds  and  pearls.  When  she  approached  me 
she  held  out  her  hand,  and  said  she  was  very  glad  to 
see  me.  The  Emperor  was  kind  and  gracious,  as 
usual. 

The  Baron  Gourgaud  was  told  to  take  me  in  to  dinner, 
and  we  followed  the  procession  to  the  dining-room, 
passing  the  Cent  Gardes,  who  looked  like  an  avenue  of 
blue  and  glittering  trees.  The  Baron  Gourgaud  and  I 
are  neighbors  in  the  country,  their  place,  La  Grange, 
being  not  far  from  Petit  Val.  His  conversation  is  not 
absorbing;  but  as  he  knows  he  is  dull  he  does  not  pre- 
tend to  be  anything  else.  I  was  thankful  for  this,  as 
I  felt  that  I  did  not  need  to  make  the  slightest  effort 
to  entertain  him. 

i86 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  cast  my  eyes  round  the  table,  and  if  I  had  not 
known  that  this  was  la  serie  amusante  I  should  never 
have  guessed  it — every  one  seemed  so  spiritless  and 
"sans  le  moindre  entrain,"  as  my  neighbor  remarked. 

No  excitement  this  evening  but  the  dance.  Wald- 
teufel  is  suppressed!  They  say  that  the  Emperor,  who 
has  a  horror  of  publicity  in  private  life,  was  very  dis- 
pleased last  year  by  the  indiscretions  and  personal  anec- 
dotes, and  especially  the  caricatures  made  by  Gustave 
Dore,  which  appeared  in  the  Figaro.  The  Emperor 
vowed  that  no  outsiders  should  be  invited  again;  there- 
fore poor  Waldteufel  has  to  pay  les  pots  casses,  and  we 
must  make  our  own  music. 

Looking  for  a  substitute  for  Waldteufel,  a  clever  cham- 
berlain discovered  the ' '  Debain piano ' '  (mechanical  piano) . 

You  remember  I  had  one  in  my  youth.  How  I  loved 
it!  How  I  used  to  love  to  grind  out  all  the  beautiful 
music  those  ugly  boxes  contained!  And  how  I  used 
to  wonder  that  those  common  wooden  slides  could  re- 
produce such  perfect  imitations  of  the  real  thing. 

I  was  so  glad  to  see  one  again,  and  envied  the  per- 
spiring chamberlain,  who  looked  bored  to  extinction 
having  to  turn  the  crank,  instead  of  joining  the  dance 
and  turning  the  heads  of  the  ladies.  It  took  two  of 
them  to  manage  the  complexities  of  the  piano,  and  as 
neither  possessed  a  musical  turn  of  the  wrist,  and  as 
neither  had  the  remotest  idea  of  time  or  measure,  it 
was  very  hard  for  us  poor  dancers! 

When  one  of  the  martyrs  wanted  to  explain  to  the 
other  what  to  do  he  would  stop  and  forget  to  turn  the 
crank.  The  dancers  were  thus  obliged  to  pause,  one 
foot  in  the  air,  not  knowing  when  to  put  it  down,  and 

187 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

when  they  did  put  it  down  they  did  not  fall  in  measure, 
and  had  to  commence  all  over  again.  This  spasmodic 
waltzing  almost  made  us  crazy.  As  for  me,  I  could  not 
bear  it  any  longer.  No  chariot  nor  horses  could  have 
kept  me  away  from  that  piano;  to  feel  again  (after 
so  many  years)  the  delight  of  playing  it!  And  then  I 
wanted  to  show  how  it  should  be  played;  so  I  went  to 
the  piano  and  took  the  crank  out  of  the  tired  hands  of 
the  chamberlain  and  ground  out  a  whole  dance. 

I  flatter  myself  that  the  dancers  enjoyed  at  least  this  one. 

His  Majesty  walked  up  to  the  piano  while  I  was  play- 
ing and  said,  "But,  Madame,  you  will  tire  yourself; 
you  really  must  stop  and  let  some  one  take  your  place." 

I  replied:  "If  your  Majesty  only  knew  what  a  pleasure 
it  is  for  me  to  play  this  piano !  I  had  one  like  it  when 
I  was  a  little  girl,  and  have  never  seen  one  since." 

"Are  these  pianos  not  something  quite  new?"  he  asked. 
"I  was  told  that  they  were  the  latest  invention." 

"They  may  be,"  I  answered,  "the  latest  improvement 
on  an  old  invention;  but  the  pianos  are  older  than  I  am." 

"That,"  answered  the  Emperor,  smilingly,  "does  not 
make  them  very  old." 

He  called  one  of  the  chamberlains,  and  I  reluctantly 
gave  up  my  place.  The  Count  d'Amelot  was  sum- 
moned, and  as  we  were  about  to  waltz  off  the  Emperor 
said,  "If  I  danced,  I  should  like  to  dance  with  you  my- 
self;  but  I  do  not  dance." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "I  must  dance  without  you." 

He  laughed:  "Vous  avez  toujours  la  replique,"  and 
stood  there  watching  us  with  those  peculiar  eyes  of  his. 

I  never  received  so  many  compliments  on  piano- 
playing  as  I  did  to-night. 

i88 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Here  is  the  list  of  my  dresses  (the  cause  of  so  much 

grumbHng) : 

Morning  Costumes.  Dark -blue  poplin,  trimmed  with  plush  of  the 
same  color,  toque,  muff  to  match. 

Black  velvet,  trimmed  with  braid,  sable  hat, 
sable  tippet  and  muff. 

Brown  cloth,  trimmed  with  bands  of  seal- 
skin, coat,  hat,  muff  to  match. 

Purple  plush,  trimmed  with  bands  of  pheas- 
ant feathers,  coat,  hat  to  match. 

Gray  velvet,  trimmed  with  chinchilla,  chin- 
chilla hat,  muff  and  coat. 

Green  cloth  (hunting  costume). 

Traveling  suit,  dark -blue  cloth  cloak. 
Evening  Dresses.      Light  green  tulle,  embroidered  in  silver,  and 
for  my  locks,  what  they  call  mte  fantaisie. 

White  tulle,   embroidered  with  gold  wheat 
ears. 

Light-gray    satin,    quite    plain,    with    only 
Brussels  lace  flounces. 

Deep  pink  tulle,  with  satin  ruchings  and  a 
lovely  sash  of  lilac  ribbon. 

Black  lace  over  white  tulle,  with  green  vel- 
vet twisted  bows. 

Light-blue  tulle  with  Valenciennes. 
Afternoon  Gowns.    Lilac  faille. 

Light  cafe  au  lait  with  trimmings  of  the  same. 

Green  faille  faced  with  blue  and  a  red  Char- 
lotte Corday  sash  (Worth's  last  gasp). 

A  red  faille,  quite  plain. 

Gray  faille  with  light-blue  facings. 

Do  you  not  think  there  is  enough  to  last  me  as  long 
as  I  live? 


Sunday,  November  28th. 

The  mass  is  at  ten  o'clock  on  Sunday,  and  one  meets 
in  the  grand  salon  before  going  to  the  chapel. 

Madame  de  Gallifet  and  I,  being  Protestants,  werQ 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

not  expected;    but,  as  we  wanted  to  go,  we  decided  to 
don  a  black  lace  veil  and  follow  the  others. 

The  chapel  is  not  large,  but  it  is  very  richly  decorated. 

The  Empress  sat  in  a  tribune  facing  the  altar  with  a 
chosen  few  and  her  dames  d'honneur. 

The  Emperor  was  not  present. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  mass  was  very  hurried  and 
curtailed.  The  chorus  boys  swung  their  censers  non- 
chalantly, as  though  they  were  fanning  themselves; 
probably  they  were  impatient  for  their  breakfast. 

The  cure  did  not  preach  any  sermon;  he  only  made 
an  exhortation  against  the  pomps  and  vanities  of  this 
wicked  world,  and  told  us  that  we  had  better  be  pre- 
pared for  death,  as  it  might  come  at  any  moment.  This 
was  nothing  new;  any  one  could  have  said  it.  He  ad- 
vised us  to  have  our  lamps  trimmed,  for,  when  our  time 
came  we  would  be  cut  down  like  grass  and  gathered  in 
the  garners.  Perhaps  he  meant  we  ought  to  make  our 
hay  while  the  sun  was  shining.  I  wondered  to  myself, 
if  some  of  those  old  gentlemen  sinners  who  had  sown 
so  liberally  would  not  be  gathered  in  as  oats.  The 
cure  was  going  on  to  say  that  we  should  not  indulge 
too  freely  in  the  good  things  of  this  world;  but  pulled 
himself  up  in  time,  remembering,  no  doubt,  that  he  was 
going  to  breakfast,  as  he  did  every  Sunday,  at  the 
Imperial  board  and  partake  of  its  luxuries. 

And  before  we  knew  it  the  mass  was  finished. 

When  we  returned  to  the  salon  it  was  eleven  o'clock, 
and  every  one  was  assembled  for  dejeuner. 

The  Marquis  d'Aoust  happened  to  sit  next  to  me 
at  table  (I  say  happened,  but  I  believe  he  manoeuvered 
so  as  to  do  so),  and,  taking  me  unawares  between  two 

190 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

mouthfuls  of  truites  saumonees,  decoyed  me  into  accept- 
ing a  stupendous  proposition  of  his,  which  was  to  help 
him  to  get  up  an  operetta  which  he  had  had  the  cour- 
age to  compose.  He  said  the  idea  had  just  come  into 
his  head;  but  I  thought,  for  an  impromptu  idea,  it  was 
rather  a  ripe  one,  as  he  had  brought  the  music  with  him, 
and  had  already  picked  out  those  he  thought  could  help, 
and  checked  them  off  on  his  lean  fingers.  He  said  the 
operetta  had  one  act  only,  which  I  thought  was  fortu- 
nate, and  that  it  needed  only  four  actors,  which  I  thought 
was  still  more  fortunate. 

The  next  thing  to  be  done,  he  said,  was  to  get  the 
singers'  consent.  I  should  have  said  it  was  the  first 
thing  to  be  done;  but  he  was  so  bubbling  over  with  en- 
thusiasm that  he  was  sure  every  one  would  jump  at 
the  chance  of  taking  part. 

He  seized  the  first  moment  after  their  Majesties  had 
retired  to  pounce  upon  those  he  had  selected,  and  having 
obtained  their  consent  he  proposed  a  walk  in  the  long, 
so-called  Treille  or  Berceau.  Napoleon  I.  built  this 
walk,  which  is  one  thousand  meters  in  length  and  reaches 
to  the  edge  of  the  forest,  for  the  Queen  Marie  Louise. 
I  must  say  I  pitied  her  toes  if  she  walked  there  often 
on  as  cold  a  day  as  to-day;  I  know  mine  ached  as  we 
paced  to  and  fro  while  the  Marquis  explained  the 
operetta.  It  was  really  too  cold  to  stay  out-of-doors, 
and  we  turned  back  to  the  little  salon,  called  the  Salon 
Japonais,  to  finish  the  seance  there. 

"What  part  am  I  to  take?"  asked  Prince  Metter- 
nich. 

As  he  could  not  be  anything  else,  he  accepted  the 
role  of  prompter,  and  promised  all  the  help  he  could  give. 

191 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

When  I  went  to  the  Empress's  tea  this  afternoon  I 

took  those  questions  Aunt  M sent  me  from  America. 

You  know  them.  You  have  to  write  what  your  favorite 
virtues  are,  and  if  you  were  not  yourself,  who  you  would 
like  to  be,  and  so  forth. 

I  was  glad  to  have  something  new  and  original  which 
might  amuse  people.  The  Empress,  seeing  the  papers 
in  my  hand,  asked  me  what  they  were.  I  told  her  that 
they  were  some  questions:  a  new  intellectual  pastime 
just  invented  in  America. 

"Do  they  invent  intellectual  pastimes  in  America?" 
she  asked,  looking  at  me  with  a  smile.  "I  thought  they 
only  invented  money-making." 

"They  do  that,  too,"  I  replied;  "but  they  have  also 
invented  these  questions,  which  probe  the  mind  to  the 
marrow  and  unveil  the  soul." 

She  laughed  and  said,  "Do  you  wish  me  to  unveil 
my  soul,  comme  cela,  a  Vimprovistef 

I  answered :  ' '  Perhaps  your  Majesty  will  look  at  them 
at  your  leisure.  I  hardly  dare  to  ask  the  Emperor;  but 
if  he  would  also  look  at  them  I  should  be  so  happy.  " 

"Leave  them  with  me,  and  to-morrow  we  will  see; 
m  any  case  my  soul  is  not  prepared  to-day." 

So  I  left  the  papers  with  her. 

It  is  the  fashion  this  year  for  ladies  to  wear  lockets 
on  a  black- velvet  ribbon  around  their  necks.  The  more 
lockets  you  can  collect  and  wear,  the  finer  you  are. 
Each  locket  represents  an  event,  such  as  a  birthday,  a 
bet,  an  anniversary  of  any  kind,  and  so  forth.  Any 
excuse  is  good  for  the  sending  of  a  locket.  The  Em- 
press had  seventeen  beautiful  ones  to-day  (I  counted 
them).     They  have  a  rather  cannibalish  look,  I  think, 

192 


C^     OUt-^y^     ^x.,Ay^^*-ii^     ^'jOt'-n^    8-^?*-^    ^ 


x^  j^fht^~j-^'  ^e^^zn^ 


J^^^^    (^il/-      hr-/      /r^^i^^^yi^Z^^       / 


0^    jrio^^^Cii^    }f-7fj^  e/ZZ^  / 


//r^^t^    ^^  vV^^^-    yf-fi^^pju^    /i^r-^-^  -  ^-y?^-/' 


MEKlMlh'.'S    SIGNATTIRIC    AND    ANS\ 


/V  A-ih^    JIL 


^/^. 


. .  ^y/^  /^^.^  .g_-,.,-wL_^^    ^ 


>'<"     .v^ 


K)    MAliAMl'     MOIM    ton's    (MH'STIONS 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Is  it  not  in  Hayti  (or  in  which  country  is  it?)  that  the 
black  citizens  wear  their  rivals'  teeth  as  trophies  on 
their  black  necks? 

Who  should  offer  me  his  arm  for  dinner  to-night  but 
Prosper  Merimee,  the  lion  of  lions,  the  pampered  poet, 
who  entrances  all  those  who  listen  to  him  whenever  he 
opens  his  lips. 

He  looks  more  like  an  Englishman  than  a  Frenchman; 
he  is  quite  old,  and  I  fancy  older  than  he  looks  (he  may 
be  fifty).  He  is  tall  and  degage,  with  a  nice  smile  and 
pleasant  eyes,  though  sometimes  he  gives  you  a  sharp 
and  suspicious  glance.  He  speaks  English  very  well. 
I  told  him  (stretching  a  point)  that  I  had  never  heard  a 
foreigner  speak  such  good  English  as  he  did. 

He  replied,  without  a  blush:  "I  ought  to  speak  it 
well.  I  learned  it  when  I  was  a  child."  And  he 
added,  complacently,  "I  can  even  write  better  than  I 
speak." 

I  asked  him  if  he  could  write  poetry  in  English. 

He  answered :  "I  do  not  think  I  could.  My  English 
goes  just  so  far  and  no  farther.  I  have  what  is  strictly 
necessary,  but  not  what  is  superfluous."  ("J'ai,  le 
stricte  necessaire,  mais  pas  le  superflu.") 

"To  make  rhymes,"  said  I,  "I  should  think  one  would 
have  to  know  every  word  in  the  dictionary." 

"Oh!"  he  said,  "I  don't  attempt  rhymes;  they  are 
far  beyond  me." 

When  he  talks  French  he  is  perfectly  delightful.  He 
creates  the  funniest  words,  and  gives  such  an  original 
turn  to  his  phrases  that  you  are — at  least  I  was — on 
the  qui  vive  not  to  lose  anything  he  said.  It  is  like 
listening  to  a  person  who,  improvising  on  the  piano, 

193 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

makes  unexpected  and  subtle  modulations  which  you 
hate  to  have  escape  you. 

He  told  me  he  had  been  in  correspondence  with  an 
English  lady  for  over  thirty  years. 

"Were  you  in  love  with  her,  that  you  wrote  to  her  all 
those  years?"  I  inquired. 

"I  was  in  love  with  her  letters,"  he  replied.  "They 
were  the  cleverest  things  I  ever  read — full  of  wit  and 
humor." 

"Was  she  in  love  with  you  or  only  with  your  letters?" 
I  was  tactless  enough  to  ask. 

"How  can  you  ask?"  he  said.  I  wondered  myself 
how  I  could  have  asked  so  indiscreet  a  question, 

"Did  she  write  in  English,  and  did  you  write  in 
French?" 

"Yes,  she  wrote  in  English,"  he  answered,  and  looked 
bored. 

"Is  she  dead?"  I  asked,  getting  bolder  and  bolder; 
but  he  would  not  talk  any  more  about  this  clever  lady, 
and  we  drifted  into  other  channels  of  conversation. 
Too  bad !  I  would  have  liked  to  have  known  if  the  lady 
was  still  living. 

I  wish  I  could  remember  all  the  pearls  which  fell 
from  his  lips;  but  alas!  one  cannot,  like  Cleopatra, 
digest  pearls.  But  I  do  remember  one  thing  he  said, 
which  was,  "If  I  should  define  the  difference  between 
men  and  women,  I  should  say,  'Que  les  hommes  valent 
plus,  mais  que  les  femmes  valent  mieux.'" 

I  wondered  if  this  was  one  of  the  pearls  he  let  drop 
in  his  letters  to  the  wonderful  English  has-hleu. 

In  the  evening  we  danced  to  the  waltzes  of  the  De- 
bain,  and  were  obliged  to  tread  a  very  spasmodic  meas- 

194 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ure.  The  Prince  Imperial  asked  me  for  a  polka,  and 
I  had  to  clutch  his  shoulder  with  one  hand  and  beat  time 
with  the  other  on  his  arm  to  keep  any  kind  of  rhythm 
in  his  evolutions.  It  is  nice  to  see  him  circulating  about 
and  chatting  with  all  the  ladies. 

November  2gth. 

A  message  came  to  my  room  this  morning,  to  the 
effect  that  I  was  to  sit  next  to  the  Emperor.  I  suppose 
they  thought  it  best  to  let  me  know  in  time,  in  case  I 
should  go  wandering  off  sight-seeing,  like  last  year;  but 
no  danger!     Once  caught,  twice  warned,  as  the  saying  is. 

Therefore,  when  we  descended  to  the  grand  salon, 
I  knew  what  my  fate  was  to  be.  The  Due  de  Sesto, 
who  had  recently  married  the  widow  of  the  Due  de 
Morny,  gave  me  his  arm  and  deposited  me  at  the  side 
of  his  Majesty. 

The  Emperor  was  in  the  most  delightful  spirits,  and 
full  of  bonhomie  and  fun.     Glancing  across  the  table  at 

a  certain  diplomat   (Baron  F ),  he  said,   "I  never 

knew  a  person  more  impervious  to  a  joke  than  that 
gentleman  is."  And  then  he  went  on  to  say  that  once 
he  had  told  the  Baron  the  old  time-worn  joke  which 
any  child  can  understand. 

(You  have  heard  it  many  times,  I  am  sure,  dear 
mama.) 

One  begins  by  saying,  "Vous  me  permettez  de  vous 
tutoyer  (You  will  permit  me  to  use  the  thee  and  thou)  ?" 
And  then  one  says,  "Pourquoi  aimes-tu  la  chicoree 
(Why  dost  thou  like  chicory)?"  To  which  the  answer 
is,  "Farce  qu'elle  est  amere  (ta  mere)  (Because  it  is  'bit- 
ter' or  'your  mother')." 

I9S 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

But  I  had  better  tell  the  story  in  the  Emperor's  own 
language : 

"The  Baron  was  making  a  call  upon  the  Duchess  de 
Bassano,  one  of  the  ladies-in-waiting  of  the  Empress, 
a  severe  and  formal  person,  as  you  know,  and  in  deep 
mourning  for  her  mother.  He  wished  to  make  him- 
self agreeable  and  told  her  this  story,  saying  that  it 
was  the  most  amusing  thing  he  had  ever  heard.  But 
he  forgot  to  ask  her  permission  to  use  the  thee  and 
thou,  and  said,  point-blank,  'Pourquoi  aimes-tu  la 
salade?'  The  Duchess  did  not  understand,  and  he, 
bursting  out  laughing,  continued,  without  waiting  for 
her  to  speak,  'Parce  qu'elle  est  ta  mere.'  The  Duchess 
arose,  indignant.  'Monsieur,  I  beg  you  cease.  My 
poor  mother  died  three  months  ago.  I  am  still  wearing 
mourning  for  her!'  With  which  she  burst  into  tears 
and  left  the  room. 

"The  Baron,  nothing  daunted,  tried  a  second  time  to 
relate  this  anecdote,  this  time  addressing  Baronne 
Pierres,  another  of  the  dames  d'honneur,  entirely  forget- 
ting to  use  the  thee  and  thou.  '  Madame,  pourquoi  aimez- 
vous  la  salade  ?'  Naturally  she  had  not  the  slightest  idea 
what  he  meant,  and  he  rejoined  triumphantly,  'Parce 
qu'elle  est  Madame  votre  mere.'  What  annoys  me  be- 
yond measure, ' '  continued  the  Emperor, ' '  is  that  he  goes  on 
telling  the  anecdote,  saying,  'The  Emperor  told  it  to  me.' " 

The  Emperor  laughed  heartily,  and  I  did,  too.  Then 
he  told  me  another  amusing  thing: 

At  a  ball  at  the  Tuileries  he  said  to  a  young  American 
whose  father  he  had  met:  "J'ai  connu  votre  pere  en 
Amerique.  Est-ce  qu'il  vit  encore?"  And  the  young 
man,  embarrassed  and  confused,  answered,  "Non,  sire; 

196 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pas  encore."  "It  is  so  good,"  the  Emperor  said,  "to 
have  a  laugh,  especially  to-day.  All  the  afternoon  I 
shall  be  plunged  in  affairs  of  state." 

I  did  not  forget  to  tell  the  Emperor  that  Delsarte 
was  wildly  excited  on  receiving  the  present  his  Majesty 
had  sent  him  last  year.  I  wandered  considerably  from 
the  truth,  as,  in  reality,  Delsarte,  who  is  not  Napoleonic 
in  his  politics,  had  said  when  I  gave  it  to  him,  "Com- 
ment! c'est  Badinguet  qui  m'envoit  cela.  Que  veut-il 
que  j'en  fasse?"  with  a  dark  frown.  But  I  noticed  he 
smoked  le  bon  tabac,  all  the  same ;  and  I  am  sure  he  said 
(even  to  his  best  friend),  "Tu  n'en  auras  pas." 

Of  course  the  Emperor  had  quite  forgotten  that  such 
a  person  as  Delsarte  had  ever  existed. 

This  was  a  perfectly  delightful  dejeuner,  and  I  shall 
never  forget  it. 

The  numerous  chamberlains  were  busy  arranging  the 
different  amusements  for  the  guests,  putting  horses,  car- 
riages, shooting,  and  excursions  at  their  disposal;  but 
we,  unlucky  ones,  were  in  duty  bound  to  abide  by  the 
Marquis,  who  had  now  completed  his  troupe  to  his 
satisfaction.  He  had  enticed  the  two  young  Mesde- 
moiselles  Albe  and  two  of  their  admirers  to  undertake 
the  chorus;  he  was  very  grateful  to  them,  as  otherwise 
it  would  have  had  to  be  suppressed — perhaps  the  best 
thing  that  could  have  happened  to  it. 

The  Princess  Mettemich  asked  us  to  come  to  their 
salon  (they  have  the  beautiful  apartments  called  les 
appartements  d'Apollon),  in  order  that  we  could  try  the 
music  with  the  piano  which  her  husband  had  hired,  as 
usual,  for  his  stay  at  Compiegne,  and  which  he  had 
put  at  the  disposition  of  the  Marquis. 

14  197 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Marquis  was  m  ecstasy,  and  capered  about  to 
collect  us;  and  at  last  we  found  ourselves  stranded 
with  the  manuscript  and  its  master,  who  was  overjoyed 
to  embark  us  on  this  shaky  craft.  He  put  himself  at 
the  piano,  played  the  score  from  beginning  to  end,  not 
sparing  us  a  single  bar.  My  heart  sank  when  I  heard 
it;  it  was  worse  than  I  thought,  and  the  plot  was  even 
worse  than  the  music — naif  and  banal  beyond  words. 

A  lord  of  the  manor  (Vicomte  Vaufreland,  basso) 
makes  love  to  a  humble  village  maiden  (myself,  sopra- 
no) ;  the  lady  of  the  manor  (Madame  Conneau,  con- 
tralto) becomes  jealous  and  makes  a  scene  with  her 
husband;  the  friend  and  adviser  (Count  d'Espeuilles, 
tenor)  steps  in  and  takes  his  friend's  part  and  kindly 
says  that  it  was  he  who  had  loved  the  village  maiden. 
The  wife  is  satisfied,  and  everything  ends  beautifully. 

It  would  be  very  uphill  work  for  the  poor  Marquis 
and  I  wondered  if  he  would  really  have  the  patience  to 
go  on  with  it,  after  realizing  how  unmusical  the  men 
were.  D'Espeuilles  stood  behind  the  Marquis's  bald 
head  and  reached  over  to  put  his  finger  on  the  note  he 
wanted  to  sing,  and  then  banged  on  that,  until,  after 
singing  every  note  in  the  scale,  he  finally  fixed  it  in  his 
brain. 

Could  anything  be  more  despairing? 

Our  next  thought  naturally  was  our  costumes. 

The  operetta  was  laid  in  the  time  of  Louis  XV. 

Would  we  be  able  to  find  anything  in  the  various 
trunks  in  the  gallery  next  to  the  theater? 

When  we  went  there  we  found  everything  we  did  not 
want — costumes,  odds  and  ends  of  all  sorts,  which  be- 
longed to  all  other  periods  than  Louis  XV.     The  con- 

198 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

tents  of  the  trunks  were  in  a  very  chaotic  state;  each 
article  which  once  had  formed  one  of  a  complete  costume 
was  without  its  better  half;  the  unprincipled  things  had 
meandered  off  and  got  mixed  up  in  other  sets. 

To  be  sure,  there  was  a  Louis  XV.  coat,  with  embroi- 
dered pockets  and  satin-lined  coat-tails,  but  nothing  more 
suitable  for  culottes  could  be  found  than  a  pair  of  red- 
plush  breeches,  trimmed  with  lace  (I  think  one  calls 
them  "trunk  hose"),  of  Henry  II. 's  time. 

When  they  were  urged  upon  the  Vicomte,  he  abso- 
lutely refused  them,  saying  he  would  not  mix  up  epochs 
like  that,  and,  after  pulling  over  everything,  he  decided 
to  send  to  Paris  for  a  complete  costume. 

Count  d'Espeuilles  was  less  difHcult  to  satisfy,  and 
was  contented  with  a  black-velvet  Hamlet  costume, 
with  a  plumed  hat,  which  suited  no  epoch  at  all,  but 
suited  his  style  of  beauty. 

Madame  C thought  her  maid  might  arrange  out 

of  a  ball-dress  some  sort  of  attire;  with  powdered  hair, 
paint,  and  patches,  she  could  represent  the  lady  of 
the  manor  very  well.  My  Tyrolean  dress  of  last  year 
would  do  quite  nicely  for  me,  when  my  maid  had  put 
the  customary  bows  on  the  traditional  apron. 

We  all  separated,  carrying  our  carefully  written  r61es 
under  our  arms,  and  in  the  worst  of  tempers. 

Monsieur  Due  was  my  neighbor  at  dinner.  He  is 
very  musical,  and  was  much  interested  in  hearing  about 
the  operetta.  He  does  not  think  the  Marquis  has  any 
talent;  neither  do  I!  But  I  don't  wish  to  give  any  opin- 
ion on  the  poor  little  struggling  operetta  before  it  has 
lived  its  day,  and  then  I  am  sure  it  will  die  its  natural 
death. 

199 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Monsieur  Due  has  composed  some  very  pretty  things 
for  the  piano,  which  he  plays  on  the  sHghtest  encour- 
agement. 

Nothing  else  was  talked  of  in  the  evening  but  the 
operetta,  and  the  Marquis  was  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
delight. 

Their  Majesties  were  told  of  the  Marquis's  interesting 
intention.  I  could  see,  across  the  room,  that  the  Em- 
press knew  that  I  was  going  to  take  part,  for  she  looked 
over  toward  me,  nodding  her  head  and  smiling  at 
me. 

There  was  some  dancing  for  an  hour,  when  one  of  the 
chamberlains  came  up  and  said  to  me  that  the  Empress 
would  be  pleased  if  I  would  sing  some  of  my  American 
songs.  I  was  delighted,  and  went  directly  into  the 
salle  de  musique,  and  when  the  others  had  come  in, 
I  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  accompanied  myself  in  the 
few  negro  songs  I  knew.  I  sang  "Suwanee  River," 
"Shoo-fiy,"  and  "Good-by,  Johnny,  come  back  to  your 
own  chickabiddy."  Then  I  sang  a  song  of  Prince 
Mettemich's,  called,  "Bonsoir,  Marguerite,"  which  he 
accompanied.  I  finished,  of  course,  with  "Beware!" 
which  Charles  accompanied. 

The  Emperor  came  up  to  me  and  asked,  "What  does 
chickabiddy  mean?" 

I  answered,  "'Come  back  soon  to  your  own  chicka- 
biddy' means  'Reviens  bientot  a  ta  cherie,'"  which  ap- 
parently satisfied  him. 

Their  Majesties  thanked  me  with  effusion,  and  were 
very  gracious. 

The  Emperor  himself  brought  a  cup  of  tea  to  me, 
a  very  unusual  thing  for  him  to  do,  and  I  fancy  a 

200 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

great    compliment,    saying,   "This   is   for   our   chicka- 
biddy!" 

Their  Majesties  bowed  in  leaving  the  room;  every 
one  made  a  deep  reverence,  and  we  retired  to  our  apart- 
ments. 

November  joth. 

The  old,  pompous,  ponderous  diplomat  (what  am  I 
saying?) — I  should  have  said,  "the  very  distinguished 
diplomat" — the  same  one  the  Emperor  told  me  yesterday 
was  so  impervious  to  a  joke,  honored  me  by  giving  me 
his  baronial  arm  for  dejeuner.  I  can't  imagine  why  he 
did  it,  unless  it  were  to  get  a  lesson  in  English  gratis, 
of  which  he  was  sadly  in  need.  He  struck  me  as 
being  very  masterful  and  weighed  down  with  the 
mighty  affairs  of  his  tiny  little  kingdom.  I  was  duly 
impressed,  and  never  felt  so  subdued  in  all  my  life, 
which  I  suppose  was  the  effect  he  wished  to  produce 
on  me. 

We  sat  like  two  gravestones,  only  waiting  for  an 
epitaph.  Suddenly  he  muttered  (as  if  such  an  immense 
idea  was  too  great  for  him  to  keep  to  himself),  "Diplo- 
macy, Madame,  is  a  dog's  business."  ("La  diplomatic 
est  un  metier  de  chien.") 

I  ventured  to  ask,  "Is  it  because  one  is  attached  to  a 
post?" 

He  gave  me  such  a  withering  look  that  I  wished  I  had 
never  made  this  silly  remark. 

All  the  same,  he  unbent  a  little  and,  with  a  dismal 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  his  face  brightening,  and  launching 
into  frivolity,  said:  "The  Emperor  told  me  something 
very  funny  the  other  day.     (I  knew  what  was  coming.) 

201 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

He  asked  me  why  I  liked  salad."     Turning  to  me  he 
said,  "Can  you  guess  the  answer?" 

I  had  many  ready  for  him;  but  I  refrained  and  only 
said,  "No,  what  was  it?" 

"Faroe  qu'elle  etait  ma  mere!"  he  replied,  and  laughed 
immoderately,  imtil  such  a  fit  of  coughing  set  in  that 
I  thought  there  would  not  be  a  button  left  on  him. 
When  he  had  finished  exploding  he  said,  "Did  you 
understand  the   'choke'?" 

If  I  had  not  understood  the  "choke,"  I  understood 
the  choking,  and  I  thought  any  more  jokes  like  this 
would  be  the  end  of  him  then  and  there. 

I  answered  quite  seriously,  "I  think  I  would  under- 
stand better,  if  I  knew  what  sort  of  salad  his  Majesty 
meant." 

He  shook  his  head  and  said  he  did  not  think  it  made 
any  difference  what  sort  of  salad  it  was.  And  we  be- 
came tombstones  again. 

I  could  hardly  wait  till  we  returned  to  the  salon, 
I  was  so  impatient  to  tell  the  Emperor  of  the  Baron's 
latest  version. 

As  his  Majesty  was  near  me,  talking  to  some  lady 
during  the  cercle,  I  stepped  forward  so  as  to  attract  his 
attention. 

He  soon  moved  toward  me,  and  I,  against  all  the  rules 
of  etiquette,  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Your  Majesty,"  said  I,  "I  sat  next  to  the  Baron  at 
breakfast  and  was  not  spared  the  salad  problem." 

"How  did  he  have  it  this  time?"  asked  the 
Emperor. 

"This  time,  your  Majesty,  he  had  it  that  you  had  said 
he  liked  salad  because  it  was  his  mother." 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Emperor  burst  out  laughing  and  said,  "He  is 
hopeless." 

It  would  seem  as  if  Fate  had  chosen  the  Baron  to  be 
the  butt  of  all  the  plaisanteries  to-day. 

Later  in  the  afternoon  we  drove  in  chars-a-hancs  to 
St.  Corneille,  a  lovely  excursion  through  the  woods. 
The  carriages  spun  along  over  the  smooth  roads,  the 
postilions  cracked  their  whips  and  tooted  their  horns, 
the  air  was  cold  and  deliciously  invigorating,  and  we 
were  the  gayest  party  imaginable.  One  would  have 
thought  that  even  the  worst  grumbler  would  have  been 
put  in  good  spirits  by  these  circumstances;  but  no! 
our  distinguished  diplomat  was  silent  and  sullen,  re- 
senting all  fun  and  nonsense.  No  wonder  that  all  con- 
spired together  to  tease  him. 

At  St.  Corneille  there  are  some  beautiful  ruins  of  an 
old  abbey  and  an  old  Roman  camp.  When  we  came 
to  the  "Fontaine  des  Miracles"  Mr.  Mallet  (of  the 
English  embassy)  pulled  out  of  his  pocket  a  Baedeker 
and  read  in  a  low  tone  to  those  about  him  what  was  said 
about  the  miracles  of  the  fountain.  The  Marquis  de 
Gallifet,  not  wishing  any  amusement  to  take  place 
without  helping  it  on  and  adding  some  touches  of  his 
own,  thereupon  interposed  in  a  stage  whisper  (evidently 
intended  to  be  heard  by  the  Baron),  "The  waters  of 
this  fountain  are  supposed  to  remove  [then  raising  his 
voice]  barrenness." 

"Baroness  who?"  asked  the  diplomat,  who  was  now 
all  alert. 

Mr.  Mallet,  to  our  amazement  (who  ever  could  have 
imagined  him  so  jocose),  said  quite  gravely,  "Probably 
the  wife  of  the  barren  fig-tree." 

203 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Ah!"  said  the  Baron,  "I  don't  know  them,"  thus 
snubbing  all  the  fig-trees. 

"A  very  old  family,"  said  Mallet,  "mentioned  in  the 
Bible." 

This  seemed  to  stagger  our  friend,  who  evidently 
prided  himself  on  knowing  every  family  worth  knowing. 
The  Marquis  de  Gallifet,  seeing  his  chance,  hurried  to 
tell  the  story  of  the  d'Albe  family,  which  the  crestfallen 
Baron  drank  in  with  open  mouth  and  swallowed 
whole.  As  the  Duke  d'Albe  was  there  himself,  listening 
attentively  and  smiling,  the  story  must  have  been  true! 
The  Marquis  de  Gallifet  said,  when  Noah  was  ready  to 
depart  in  the  ark  he  saw  a  man  swimming  for  dear 
life  toward  the  boat,  waving  something  in  the  air. 
Noah  called  out  to  him: 

' '  Don't  ask  to  be  taken  in.  We  can't  carry  any  more 
passengers,  we  are  already  too  full." 

The  man  answered,  "I  don't  want  to  be  taken  in; 
I  don't  care  for  myself;  but,  pray,  save  the  papers  of  the 
family." 

The  Baron  looked  very  grave,  and  turning  to  the 
Duke  asked,  in  an  extremely  solemn  tone,  'Ts  this 
really  true?" 

"Perfectly,"  answered  the  Duke,  without  moving  a 
muscle.  "The  saying,  'Apres  moi  le  deluge,'  originated 
in  our  family;  but  we  say,  'Nous  d'abord,  et  puis  le 
deluge!'" 

"How  interesting!"  said  the  Baron. 

Then  Monsieur  Due,  not  wishing  to  be  outdone,  said 
his  family  was  as  old  (if  not  older),  having  taken  the 
name  of  Due  from  the  dove  [in  Swedish  "due"  means 
dove]  which  carried  the  olive-branch  to  the  ark, 

304 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

By  this  time  the  poor  Baron,  utterly  staggered  and 
bewildered  in  presence  of  such  a  concourse  of  ancient 
nobility,  did  not  know  on  which  leg  to  stand.  How 
could  he  and  his  family  ever  hold  up  their  heads  again? 

We  returned  to  Compiegne  by  St.  Ferine,  where 
there  was  a  most  enchanting  view,  and  drove  straight 
through  a  long  avenue  and  entered  La  cour  d'honneur. 
It  was  almost  half -past  five  when  we  reached  our  rooms. 

I  thought  I  had  had  enough  of  fossils  and  ruins  for 
one  day,  from  breakfast  onward,  so  when  old  General 
Changarnier  came  to  offer  me  his  arm  for  dinner  I 
said  to  myself,  "This  is  the  climax!" 

But,  on  the  contrary  (the  unexpected  always  arrives), 
he  was  so  delightful  and  genial  that  my  heart  was 
warmed  through,  which,  indeed,  it  needed,  after  the  ice- 
chest  I  had  had  for  dejeuner.  He  did  not  try  to  raise 
me  to  his  level,  but  simply  let  himself  down  to  mine, 
and  talked  small  talk  so  youthfully  that  I  felt  we  were 
about  the  same  age.     He  was  a  charming  man. 

Monsieur  de  Laferriere  arranged  a  sort  of  ball  for 
this  evening.  There  was  an  unusual  flutter,  for  every- 
thing was  going  to  be  extra  fine,  and  we  put  on  our 
prettiest  dresses.  Programmes  with  dangling  pencils 
were  lavished  on  us,  on  which  regular  dances  were  set 
down — quadrilles,  waltzes,  polkas,  and  lancers. 

The  usual  cercle  was  curtailed,  in  view  of  the  ball. 

The  chamberlains,  to  facilitate  matters,  had  arranged 
the  boxes  of  music  for  the  mechanical  piano  very  me- 
thodically on  a  table,  so  there  should  be  no  mistakes  or 
fumbling  with  the  slides. 

The  ladies  were  so  agitated,  fearing  they  would  not 
get   any   partners,    that   they   made   very   transparent 

205 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

efforts  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  gentlemen.  One 
would  have  thought  they  had  never  been  to  a  ball  in 
all  their  lives.  The  gentlemen,  just  as  agitated,  rushed 
about  to  secure  the  ladies,  whom  they  could  have  had 
without  the  rushing  on  other  evenings.  The  Empress 
looked  exquisitely  beautiful.  The  Emperor  stood  in 
the  doorway,  smiling  at  this  whirlwind  of  gaiety  and 
animation.  The  Prince  Imperial  danced  imtiringly  with 
all  the  ladies. 

Flowers  were  distributed  about,  and,  wonder  of  won- 
ders! ices  were  served  at  intervals,  as  if  it  were  a  real 
ball.  My  old  general  was  chivalry  itself.  He  even 
engaged  a  partner  for  the  lancers,  and  skipped  about 
telling  everybody  he  did  not  know  how  to  dance  them, 
which  was  unnecessary,  as  one  could  see  for  oneself 
later. 

There  are  four  kinds  of  people  in  society: 

Those  who  know  the  lancers. 

Those  who  don't  know  the  lancers. 

Those  who  know  the  lancers  and  say  they  don't. 

Those  who  don't  know  the  lancers  and  say  they  do. 

My  old  and  venerable  warrior  belonged  to  class  number 
two,  and  really  did  not  know  the  lancers,  but  tripped 
about  pleasantly  and  let  others  guide  him.  When  we 
came  to  the  grande  chaine  he  was  completely  intoxi- 
cated with  his  success.  Every  eye  was  on  him.  Every 
one  was  occupied  with  his  doings,  and  his  alone.  All 
the  ladies  were  pulling  him  first  one  way  and  then  the 
other,  trying  to  confuse  him  by  getting  him  into  another 
set,  imtil  he  found  himself  quite  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room,  still  being  pulled  about  and  twirled  in  every  di- 
rection, never  knowing  where  he  was  or  when  he  was 

206 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

going  to  stop.  At  last,  utterly  exhausted  and  confused, 
he  stopped  short  and  placed  himself  in  the  middle  of 
the  ballroom,  delighted  to  be  the  center  of  all  eyes  and 
to  make  this  elective  finale .  But  no  one  could  compare 
with  him  when  he  made  his  Louis-Quinze  reverence; 
the  younger  men  had  to  acknowledge  that  he  scored  a 
point  there,  and  he  might  well  be  proud  of  himself.  All 
this  made  us  very  gay,  and  almost  boisterous.  Never 
before  had  the  evening  finished  with  such  a  burst  of 
merriment,  and  we  all  retired,  agreeing  that  the  ball  had 
been  a  great  success,  and  that  Monsieur  de  Laferriere 
could  sleep  on  his  laurels  as  soundly  as  we  intended  to 
sleep  on  our  pillows. 

December  ist. 

Count  Niewekerke  offered  me  his  arm  for  dejeuner 
this  morning.  He  is  a  Dutchman  {Hollandais  sounds 
better)  by  birth,  but  he  lives  in  Paris.  As  he  is  the 
greatest  authority  on  art  there,  the  Emperor  has  made 
him  Count  and  Director  of  the  Galerie  du  Louvre.  He 
is  very  handsome,  tall,  and  commanding,  and  has, 
besides  other  enviable  qualities,  the  reputation  of  being 
the  great  lady-killer  par  excellence. 

As  we  stood  there  together  the  Empress  passed  by 
us.  She  held  up  her  finger  warningly,  saying,  "Take 
care!  Beware!  He  is  a  very  dangerous  person,  un 
vrai  mangeur  de  cceurf'  "I  know,  your  Majesty,"  I 
answered,  "and  I  expect  to  be  brought  back  on  a  litter." 

She  laughed  and  passed  on. 

Monsieur  Niewekerke  looked  pleasantly  conscious  and 
flattered  as  we  walked  to  the  dining-room,  and  I  felt 
as  if  I  was  being  led  to  the  altar  to  be  sacrificed  like 

207 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

poor  little  Isaac.  His  English  is  very  cockney,  and  he 
got  so  mixed  up  with  "heart"  and  "art"  that  I  did  not 
know  half  the  time  whether  he  was  talking  of  the  col- 
lection of  the  Louvre  Gallery  or  of  his  lady  victims. 
He  did  not  hesitate  to  call  my  attention  to  the  presence 
of  some  of  them  at  the  table,  which  I  thought  was  very 
kind  of  him,  in  case  I  was  unaware  of  it. 

He  is  as  keen  about  the  good  things  of  the  table  as 
he  is  about  art;  in  fact,  he  is  a  great  epicure.  As  he 
thought  well  of  the  menu,  I  will  copy  it  for  you: 

Consomme  en  tasses. 

CEufs  au  fromage  a  I'ltalienne, 

Petites  tniites. 

Cailles  au  riz. 

Cotelettes  de  veau  grillees. 

Viande  froide,  salade. 

Brioches  a  la  vanille,  fruits,  dessert,  cafe.  .  .  . 

"Well,"  said  the  Empress,  as  she  stopped  in  front  of 
me  after  dejeuner,  "are  you  alive?" 

"I  am,  your  Majesty,  and,  strange  to  say,  my  heart 
is  intact." 

"Wonderful!"  she  said,  "you  are  an  exception." 

We  had  the  choice  between  going  to  a  chasse  h  tir 
(without  the  Emperor),  and  a  drive  to  Pierrefonds. 

I  had  enough  of  the  chasse  a  tir  last  year,  and  I  still 
see  in  my  dreams  those  poor  birds  fluttering  in  their 
death-agony.     Anything  better  than  that! 

I  preferred  Pierrefonds,  with  its  gargoyles  and  its  hard, 
carved  chairs. 

I  was  glad  Monsieur  de  Niewekerke  went  with  us,  for 
he  was  more  interesting  and  did  not  go  into  so  many 
details  as  Viollet-le-Duc. 

The  restoration  has  progressed  very  much  since  the 

208 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

last  time  we  were  here,  though  far  from  being  com- 
pleted yet.  In  the  huge  hall  Niewekerke  told  me  the 
statues  about  the  chimney  were  portraits  of  the  wives 
of  the  preux  chevaliers  of  that  time. 

I  thought  the  frescos  of  this  hall  were  very  crude  in 
color;  but  Monsieur  de  Niewekerke  said  they  were  ex- 
cellent copies  of  the  ancient  style  of  decoration. 

The  castle  is  such  a  magnificent  ruin  one  almost 
wishes  that  it  was  not  restored. 

I  would  like  to  see  it  in  summer,  not  in  this  season, 
when  one  perishes  with  cold  and  longs,  in  spite  of  its 
beauty,  to  be  out  of  it  and  in  a  warmer  place. 

There  was  a  dense  fog  on  the  lake  and  a  mist  in  the 
forest  when  we  left,  and  it  was  dreadfully  damp  and 
cold.  The  postilions  took  a  shorter  cut  and  carried  us 
through  La  Breviere  and  St.  Jean  aux  Bois. 

I  should  think  both  must  be  charming  in  summer; 
but  now — ugh! 

What  was  my  delight  at  the  Empress's  tea  this  after- 
noon to  see  Auber,  my  dear  old  Auber!  He  had  been 
invited  for  dinner,  and  had  come  with  the  artists  who 
are  to  play  to-night.  He  looked  so  well  and  young,  in 
spite  of  his  eighty-three  years.  Every  one  admires  him 
and  loves  him.  He  is  the  essence  of  goodness,  talent, 
and  modesty.  He  is  writing  a  new  opera.  Fancy 
writing  an  opera  at  eighty- three ! 

I  asked  what  the  name  of  it  was.  He  answered: 
'"Le  Reve  d' Amour.'  The  title  is  too  youthful  and 
the  composer  is  too  old.  I  am  making  a  mistake,  but 
what  of  that?     It  is  my  last!" 

I  said  I  hoped  he  would  live  many  more  years  and 
write  many  more  operas. 

209 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

He  shook  his  head,  saying,  "Non,  non,  c'est  vraiment 
mon  dernier!" 

Monsieur  de  Lareinty  said  to  the  Empress  at  tea 
that  there  was  an  unusual  amount  of  musical  talent 
among  her  guests — a  real  galaxy  of  stars  seldom  to  be 
found  in  amateurs. 

The  galaxy  may  have  existed — but  the  stars!  The 
Milky  Way  seen  through  the  wrong  end  of  an  opera- 
glass  was  nothing  to  the  smallness  of  their  magnitude. 

The  Empress  caught  at  the  idea  directly,  and  the 
decree  went  out  that  there  should  be  a  concert  to- 
morrow evening;  not  mere  desultory  singing,  but  singers 
and  songs  in  regular  order. 

Auber  said  he  was  sorry  he  could  not  be  there  to 
applaud  us.  He  accompanied  us  when  we  went  to 
our  rooms,  and  then  he  had  no  idea  how  to  find  his 
own.  After  having  seen  him  handed  over  successively 
to  three  different  valets,  we  left  him  to  his  fate,  hoping 
he  would  arrive  at  his  destination  eventually.  When 
we  entered  the  salon  for  dinner  Auber  was  already 
there.  If  he  had  not  brought  his  own  servant  with 
him,  he  never  would  have  been  in  time. 

The  troop  of  the  Comedie  Frangaise  played  ' '  La  Joie 
fait  Peur,"  by  Musset.  The  theater  was  brilliantly 
lighted;  the  guests,  from  the  environs  and  the  fine  fleur 
of  Compiegne,  filled  all  the  boxes.  The  gentlemen  and 
the  officers  were  in  the  parquet.  The  Court  and  Im- 
perial guests  sat  with  their  Majesties  in  the  Imperial 
box.     It  was  a  magnificent  sight! 

Madame  Favart  was  most  touching  in  her  part,  and 
everybody,  I  think,  wept.  Coquelin  was  excellent;  but 
I  do  not  like  him  so  much  in  his  pathetic  rdles;    his 

2IO 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

squeaky  voice  and  nasal  tones  do  not  belong  to  the 
sentimental  style.  After  the  play  he  gave  a  monologue, 
which  was  the  funniest  thing  I  ever  heard,  "Les  Ob- 

seques   de   Madame   X ."     The   whole   house   was 

laughing,  and  most  of  all  the  Emperor.  I  could  see  his 
back  shaking,  and  the  diplomatic  and  apoplectic  Baron 
condescended  to  explode  twice. 

The  representation  lasted  till  half-past  ten.  The 
artists  did  not  change  their  toilettes,  but  came  into 
the  salon  as  they  were  dressed  for  the  play.  They  were 
received  with  great  cordiality  by  their  Majesties.  The 
Chamberlain  gave  them  each  a  little  package  contain- 
ing, I  suppose,  a  valuable  souvenir  from  the  sovereigns. 
A  special  train  took  them  back  to  Paris. 

Auber  bid  me  good-by,  saying,  "Au  revoir  until  Paris, 
if  you  are  not  too  absorbed  in  these  grandeurs  to  receive 
a  poor,  insignificant  bourgeois  like  me." 

"You  can  always  try,"  I  answered  with  a  laugh. 
"Bon  soir  et  bon  voyage!" 

December  2d. 

What  a  day  this  has  been!  A  storm  of  rain  and 
hail  raged  all  night,  and  when  I  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow this  morning  I  saw  everything  deluged  in  water. 
The  park  looked  dismal;  all  the  paths  were  full  of  pud- 
dles; the  trees  were  dripping  with  rain,  and,  to  judge 
from  the  dark  skies  and  threatening  clouds,  it  seemed 
as  if  worse  was  to  follow  and  there  might  be  thunder 
and  lightning.  On  the  programme  for  to-day  there 
stood  chasse  a  courre;  but  of  course  cela  tombait  dans 
Veau,  as  would  have  been  its  natural  end  anyway  in  this 
weather.     None  of  the  ladies  donned  their  green  cos- 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

tumes,  as  every  one  was  so  sure  that  the  day  would  be 
passed  indoors. 

At  dejeuner  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  sit  between 
Prince  Mettemich  and  the  Marquis  de  Gallifet.  Cer- 
tainly I  could  not  have  two  more  delightful  com- 
panions, each  so  different  and  yet  so  entertaining.  The 
Marquis  was  very  aggressive  and  grumpy;  but  very 
amusing. 

In  French  one  says,  "On  a  le  vin  triste,"  or  "On  a  le 
vin  gai."  The  Marquis  has  "le  dejeimer  grincheux 
(grumpy),"  I  think. 

He  began  by  attacking  me  on  the  EngHsh  language. 
He  said  it  was  utterly  absurd  and  illogical,  and  though 
he  ought  to  know  it,  as  he  had  an  English  wife,  he  felt 
he  never  could  learn  it. 

"Apropos  of  to-day's  weather,  you  say,  'It  never 
rains  but  it  pours' — au  fond  qu'est-ce  que  cela  veut 
dire?  'II  ne  pleut  jamais,  mais  il  pleut  a  verse';  cela 
n'a  pas  le  sens  commun — you  might  as  well  say,  'It 
never  pours  but  it  rains.'" 

I  had  to  confess  that  it  did  sound  senseless,  and 
tried  to  explain  the  meaning;  but  he  grumbled,  "Why 
don't  they  say  what  they  mean?"  He  told  me  he  was 
once  traveling  in  England  and  put  his  head  out  of  the 
carriage  window  to  see  something,  and  some  one  in- 
side cried,  "Look  out!"  He  put  his  head  still  farther 
out,  when  the  person  continued  to  scream,  "Look  out!" 
He  answered,  "I  am  looking  out,"  at  which  a  rude  hand 
seized  him  by  the  coat-collar  and  jerked  him  inside, 
saying,  "Damn  it,  look  in  then!" 

"How  can  any  one  conquer  a  language  as  stupid  as 
that?" 

212 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  told  him  I  felt  humiliated  to  own  such  a  language, 
and  I  ought  to  apologize  for  it,  though  I  had  not  invented 
it  and  did  not  feel  responsible  for  it;  but  he  would  not 
listen  to  me. 

Prince  Metternich  asked,  "What  shall  we  do  indoors 
this  awful  day?" 

I  proposed  tableaux;    but  he  objected  to  tableaux. 

Then  I  suggested  that  one  might  have  a  fancy-dress 
tea-party.  At  last,  after  many  wild  propositions,  he 
said,  "Why  not  charades?" 

Of  course  he  had  intended  charades  all  the  time.  He 
asked  the  Marquis  de  Gallifet  if  he  would  help  us. 

"No,  I  won't,"  answered  the  Marquis,  "but  you  are 
welcome  to  my  wife;  she  loves  dressing- up  and  all  that 
nonsense;"  adding,  "It  is  the  only  thing  she  can  do 
with  success." 

"But  we  want  her  to  act.    Can  she?" 

"Act!"  said  the  amiable  husband.  "She  can  act 
like  the  devil!" 

By  the  time  we  had  returned  to  the  salon  the  Prince 
had  not  only  found  a  good  word  for  a  charade,  but  had 
decided  in  his  resourceful  mind  all  minor  details.  He 
thought  it  would  amuse  the  Prince  Imperial  to  join 
us,  and  he  asked  permission  of  the  Prince's  gouverneur 
to  allow  him  to  do  so.  The  permission  was  readily 
given. 

Prince  Metternich  begged  Vicomte  Walsh  to  obtain 
the  Empress's  gracious  consent  to  honor  the  perform- 
ance with  her  presence.  She  was  very  pleased  at  the 
idea  of  seeing  her  son's  debut  as  an  actor,  and  promised 
to  come,  and  even  said  she  would  have  the  tea,  usually 
served  in  her  salon,  brought  to  the  little  theater. 

15  213 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Prince  Metternich  gave  us  a  sketch  of  what  he  wanted 
us  to  do,  and  gave  us  general  instructions  as  to  our 
costumes,  and  bade  us  meet  again  in  an  hour.  He 
would  see  to  everything  else:  light,  heat,  scenery, 
powder,  paint,  etc.,  all  the  accessories,  would  be  ready 
for  us.  We  ladies  were  to  be  pierrettes  and  dancers  of 
Louis- Quinze  period;  the  gentlemen  were  to  represent 
the  talons  rouges,  and  to  have  red  cloth  pasted  on  the 
heels  of  their  low  shoes.  We  could  paint  our  faces  and 
powder  our  hair  after  our  own  ideas.  "But,  ladies, 
above  all,  do  not  be  late,"  were  the  parting  words  of  the 
Prince. 

We  followed  his  instructions  as  well  as  we  could,  and 
reappeared  in  the  theater  to  hear  the  now  fully  matured 
plans  of  our  impresario. 

The  Empress  was  seated  before  we  were  ready,  Prince 
Metternich  was  so  long  painting  the  Prince  Imperial. 
We  could  hear  her  saying,  "Allons!  Allons!"  clapping 
her  hands  in  her  eagerness  for  us  to  commence. 

The  word  was  Pantalon. 

The  first  syllable,  Pan,  was  represented  by  the  Prince 
Imperial  as  a  statue  of  Pan. 

His  body  was  visible  to  the  waist  above  a  pedestal. 
Over  his  flesh-colored  undershirt  he  wore  a  wreath  of 
green  leaves  across  his  shoulders,  and  his  head  was  also 
covered  with  a  wreath.  He  held  the  traditional  flute 
before  his  mouth.  No  one  could  have  recognized  the 
delicate  features  of  the  Prince  Imperial,  as  Prince 
Metternich  had  painted  his  lips  very  large  and  very  red, 
and  had  added  a  fantastic  mustache.  His  eyebrows 
(black  as  ink)  had  an  upward  tilt,  in  true  Mephistophe- 
lian  style. 

214 


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NSWERS   TO   MADAME   MOULTON  S   QUESTIONS 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

It  was  a  sylvan  scene.  Prince  Metternich  had  ordered 
from  the  greenhouse  some  orange  and  other  trees  to  be 
moved  on  to  the  stage,  which  made  a  very  pretty  effect. 

The  Princess  Metternich,  in  a  quaint  costume,  was 
the  Harlequine  to  her  husband's  Harlequin.  They  made 
a  very  funny  love  "scene,  because,  being  man  and  wife, 
they  could  make  all  their  kissing  real,  and  so  ridicu- 
lously loud,  that  one  could  hear  it  all  over  the  theater. 
Every  one  laughed  till  they  cried,  and  particularly 
as  Pan  was  rolling  his  eyes  about  in  a  very  comical 
manner. 

Her  other  lover  (Pierrot)  came  in  unawares;  but  she 
had  time  to  throw  a  shawl  over  Harlequin,  who  put 
himself  on  all  fours,  thus  making  a  bench,  on  which  she 
demurely  sat  down.  In  order  to  throw  dust  in  Pierrot's 
eyes,  she  took  from  her  basket  a  hammer  and  some  nuts 
and  began  cracking  them  (to  the  audience's  and  Pan's 
horror)  on  poor  Harlequin's  head,  eating  them  with 
great  sang-froid. 

Prince  Metternich  had  prudently  provided  a  wooden 
bowl,  with  which  he  covered  his  head  so  that  his  am- 
bassadorial skull  should  be  spared.  Pan  smiled  a  dia- 
bolical smile,  and  had,  of  course,  a  great  success. 

Talon  was  the  next  syllable.  This  was  a  sort  of 
pantomime.  The  actors  were  grouped  like  a  picture 
of  Watteau.  Count  Pourtales  was  a  dancing-master, 
and  was  really  so  witty,  graceful,  and  took  such  artistic 
attitudes  that  he  was  a  revelation  to  every  one.  Prince 
Metternich  (his  bosom  friend)  exclaimed : 

"Who  would  ever  have  thought  it?  How  talent  con- 
ceals itself!" 

The  whole  word  Pantalon  was  a  combination   of 

215 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Columbines,  Harlequins,  and  Louis-Quinze  cavaliers 
dancing  in  a  circle,  and  all  talking  nonsense  at  once. 

The  statue  of  Pan  in  knickerbockers,  his  wreaths  still 
on  his  head  and  shoulders,  joined  in  the  dance. 

The  Empress  led  the  vociferous  applause,  and  Prince 
Metternich  came  forward  on  the  stage  and  said,  ' '  Ladies 
and  gentlemen,  we  are  deeply  flattered  at  your  approval. 
There  will  be  a  second  performance  before  his  Majesty, 
the  Emperor  of  the  French,  and  I  hope  you  will  accord 
us  your  patronage." 

There  was  great  laughter  at  this. 

Count  Pourtales  took  me  in  to  dinner.  We  were  very 
glad  to  be  neighbors.  He  was  resting  on  his  laurels, 
and  I  wanted  to  rest  before  getting  mine  (if  I  got  any) 
this  evening.  We  exchanged  views  on  nervousness. 
He  said  he  had  been  dreadfully  nervous  in  the  afternoon. 
I  told  him  I  was  always  nervous  when  I  had  to  sing, 
and  when  I  sang  the  first  song  I  was  hot  and  cold  all 
over. 

"Like  Alboni,"  he  said;  "she  has  had  to  give  up  sing- 
ing in  opera,  she  had  such  stage-frights." 

We  thanked  each  other  after  finishing  dinner  for 
having  been  kind  enough  to  have  let  the  other  alone. 

The  rain  was  still  pouring  in  torrents  when  we  re- 
turned to  the  salon.  In  spite  of  the  many  voices,  we 
could  still  hear  it  pattering  against  the  windows  of  the 
terrace.  It  was  lucky  there  were  some  stars  among  us, 
as  Monsieur  de  Lareinty  had  said,  otherwise  we  would 
have  seen  none  to-night. 

At  ten  o'clock  the  "galaxy"  went  into  the  salle  de 
musique,  and  the  planets  began  to  shine.  First  came 
Baroness    Gourgaud,    who    attacked    the   "Mi — bemol 

216 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Polonaise,"  of  Chopin.  Their  Majesties  settled  them- 
selves in  their  chairs  with  a  look  of  heavenly  resignation 
on  their  faces,  which  was  reflected  on  those  of  most  of 
the  guests. 

However,  she  played  beautifully,  more  like  an  artiste 
than  an  amateur.  The  Empress  went  forward  to  her, 
holding  out  her  hand,  which  the  Baroness,  bowing  to 
the  ground,  kissed  gratefully,  feeling  that  she  had  cov- 
ered herself  with  glory,  as  she  really  had. 

Then  Monsieur  de  V (our  basso)  sang  "O  Mar- 
guerite," from  Faust,  without  the  slightest  voice,  but 
with  excellent  intentions.  Next,  having  the  music  under 
his  hand,  he  continued  and  sang  "Braga's  Serenade," 
which  he  thought  was  more  suited  to  his  voice,  though 
it  is  written,  as  you  know,  for  a  soprano.  He  sang  the 
girl's  part  in  a  mysterious,  husky,  and  sepulchral  voice, 
and  the  angel's  part  weaker  and  feebler  than  any  angel 
ever  dreamed  of. 

I  looked  at  the  beautiful  ceiling  painted  by  Girodet, 
and  to  keep  myself  from  going  to  sleep  counted  the 
legs  of  the  angels,  and  tried  to  calculate  how  many  legs 

belonged  to  each.     Monsieur  de  V said  his  idea  was 

to  make  the  contrast  very  strong  between  the  girl  and 
the  angel;   he  certainly  succeeded! 

Monsieur  Due  played  some  of  what  he  calls  his 
"Sketches."  "11  est  si  doue  (gifted),"  exclaimed  Prin- 
cess Metternich. 

Every  one  was  pleased;  so  was  he. 

I  sang  "Le  Rossignol,"  of  Alabieff,  in  which  is  the 
cadenza  Auber  wrote  for  me.  Princess  Metternich 
played  the  accompaniment. 

Madame   C (our   contralto)    sang   "Lascia   che 

217 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pianga,"  which  suited  her  beautiful  voice  better  than  it 
did  the  audience's  taste.  Then  she  sang  "Ah!  Mon 
Fils,"  of  "Le  Prophete,"  with  great  effect,  accompanying 
herself. 

But  this  was  not  the  kind  of  music  to  please  our 
audience. 

Count  E (our  tenor)  was  asked  to  add  his  Milky 

Way  tenor  to  the  rest  of  the  planets,  but  begged  to 
be  excused  on  the  plea  of  a  sore  throat.  No  one 
questioned  this,  and  he  was  allowed  to  remain  un- 
heard. 

Later  I  sang  "Oh!  that  We  Two  were  Maying,"  by 
Gounod,  a  much  too  serious  song;  but  the  Empress 
said  she  thought  it  was  the  most  beautiful  one  she  had 
ever  heard.  I  think  so,  too.  I  also  sang  one  of  Mas- 
senet's, "Poeme  d'Avril."  They  asked  for  "Beware!" 
which  I  sang.  The  Emperor  came  up  to  me  (each  time 
he  gets  up  from  his  chair  every  one  gets  up  and  stands 
until  he  sits  down  again),  and  said,  "Won't  you  sing  the 
song  about  the  shoe?" 

What  did  he  mean?     I  had  no  idea. 

"The  one  you  sang  the  other  night,"  said  the  Em- 
peror. 

What  do  you  think  he  meant? 

Well,  he  meant  "Shoo-fly!"  I  sang  it,  as  he  desired. 
I  don't  believe  he  knows  yet  what  its  true  meaning  is. 
There  is  an  end  to  all  things,  and  oiu*  concert  came  to 
an  end  at  last.  Their  Majesties,  with  gracious  smiles  and 
repeated  thanks,  retired,  the  Milky  Way  faded  from 
view,  and  the  planets  went  to  bed. 

I  know  I  deserved  mine,  and  I  appreciated  it  when 
I  got  it. 

218 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

December  jd. 

The  chasse  d  courre  is  generally  fixed  for  the  last  day 
of  the  serie;  but  their  Majesties,  at  the  suggestion  of 
the  thoughtful  Vicomte  Walsh,  ordered  it  to  be  changed 
to  this  afternoon,  in  order  that  the  operetta  should 
arrive  at  a  riper  stage  of  perfection.  Would  it  ever  be 
near  enough?     We  had  never  had  a  moment  yet  when 

we  could  rehearse  all  together.     Vicomte  de  V 's 

costume  had  not  come  from  Paris,  and  he  was  bordering 
on  brain-fever,  in  a  state  of  expectancy  and  impatience. 
Neither  he  nor  d'Espeuilles  knew  their  songs,  and  the 
chorus  needed  much  drilling.  The  Princess  Metternich 
put  her  salon  at  the  Marquis's  disposal,  and  he  spent 
half  his  time  teaching  some  of  his  pupils. 

The  days  of  the  chasse  d,  courre  the  gentlemen  appear 
in  red  coats  and  the  ladies  in  green-cloth  dresses.  Those 
that  had  le  bouton  put  it  in  their  buttonhole.  You 
may  be  sure  I  wore  mine! 

All  the  carriages,  the  horses,  and  grooms  were  before 
the  terrace  at  two  o'clock,  and  after  the  usual  delay  we 
drove  off  to  the  forest.  Their  Majesties  and  the  Prince 
Imperial  were  on  horseback.  The  Duchess  de  Sesto 
invited  me  to  drive  with  her,  and  in  the  same  char-d- 
banc  with  us  were  Baronne  de  la  Poeze,  Comtesse  Pour- 
tales,  and  four  or  five  others.  The  Duchess  looked  very 
dainty,  wrapped  in  her  chinchilla  furs.  I  had  had  so 
little  time  to  learn  the  talking  part  of  my  role  that  I 
took  it  with  me  in  the  carriage,  hoping  to  be  able  to 
study  it.  They  all  sympathized  with  me,  as  they  knew 
the  operetta  was  to  be  given  to-morrow  evening. 

The  roads  were  full  of  mud;  but  we  splashed  through 

219 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

them  regardless  of  such  minor  details  as  dirt.  Fortu- 
nately it  did  not  rain,  and  the  sun  made  a  few  spas- 
modic efforts  to  come  out;  but  it  was  far  from  being 
the  ideal  day  of  last  year. 

This  chasse  varies  but  little,  and  I  described  my  first 
acquaintance  with  it  in  a  letter  last  year,  so  I  will  spare 
you  the  repetition  of  details.  I  fancy  the  route  we  took 
was  the  same ;  but  I  am  not  quite  sure,  for  all  the  roads 
and  avenues  resemble  one  another. 

Once,  as  we  halted  at  an  etoile,  we  saw  a  beautiful 
stag  bound  past  us,  full  of  life  and  strength,  with  enor- 
mous horns  (they  said  it  was  a  dix  cors).  Every  one  in 
the  carriage  stood  up  in  their  excitement  to  look  after 
it.  How  I  wished  he  would  escape  and  live  his  free 
and  happy  life  in  the  forest.  I  hate  this  chasse;  I  hate 
to  write  about  it;  I  hate  to  be  present  at  it.  It  is  all 
so  pitiful  and  painful  to  me!  How  can  any  one  find 
pleasure  in  such  cruel  sport? 

To  kill  a  living  creature,  to  take  the  life  of  an  animal 
that  has  done  you  no  harm,  seems  horrible  to  me.  But 
I  will  say  no  more  on  this  subject.  It  always  puts  me 
in  a  bad  temper,  and  makes  me  disgusted  with  my 
fellow-creatures . 

We  followed  the  other  part  of  the  cavalcade  and  ar- 
rived at  the  carrefour  in  time  to  see  the  death  of  one  stag. 
The  others  saw  it,  but  I  was  occupied  with  my  manuscript. 

There  were  two  stags  taken,  two  beautiful  creatures 
that  ought  to  have  lived. 

It  was  so  cold  and  bleak  I  longed  to  get  back  to  warm 
rooms,  cheerful  fire,  and  a  hot  cup  of  tea,  which  I  was 
sure  to  find  awaiting  me,  and  I  was  heartily  glad  when 
we  turned  homeward. 

220 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Six  o'clock  had  just  struck  when  we  drove  up  to  the 
front  of  the  Grand  Escaher,  and  I  was  able  to  get  a 
little  rest  before  dressing  for  dinner. 

All  the  ladies  who  owned  diamond  crescents,  or  any 
crescent  suggestive  of  Diana  and  her  pastimes,  put  them 
on.  The  Empress  had  a  gorgeous  crescent  on  her  lovely 
hair. 

The  worn-out  Marquis  took  me  in  to  dinner.  It  was 
fortunate,  for  there  were  some  vital  points  which  we  had 
to  discuss.  On  my  other  side  was  the  Count  de  Gram- 
mont,  a  sportsman,  who  wanted  to  talk  only  of  the  hunt; 
but  I  was  able  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  his  marvelous  ex- 
ploits, thanks  to  the  Marquis's  incessant  explanations. 

There  was  a  little  dancing,  to  fill  up  the  time  before 
the  curee.  It  is  a  pity  that  this  is  our  last  dance.  The 
chamberlains  are  beginning  to  show  a  good  deal  of 
talent  in  their  playing  le  piano  mechanique,  and  they 
can  play  almost  in  time. 

The  curee  was  at  ten  o'clock.  The  long  gallery  was 
soon  alive  with  an  eager  public.  All  the  windows  were 
occupied  by  the  ladies.  The  courtyard  was  filled,  in 
spite  of  the  cold  weather,  with  the  populace  of  Com- 
piegne;  the  piqueurs  waved  their  torches;  the  dogs 
howled  and  yelped;  the  gardes  blew  their  long  cars  de 
chasse,  and  it  was  just  like  last  year,  except  that  on  this 
occasion  there  were  two  stags  —  therefore,  two  sets  of 
entrails  to  be  devoured. 

Tea  and  cakes  were  passed  about.  Those  who  had 
come  from  the  neighboring  chateaux  took  their  leave, 
those  who  were  to  return  to  Paris  drove  off  to  the 
station,  and  the  privileged  guests  retired  to  their  apart- 
ments. 

29X 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

December  4th. 

At  ten  o'clock  this  morning  I  was  siirprised  at  hearing 
a  timid  knock  at  my  salon  door.  Who  should  it  be 
but  the  Marquis  d'Aoust.  He  begged  my  pardon  for 
disturbing  me ;  but  he  wished  to  consult  me  about  some- 
thing he  considered  of  great  importance. 

He  looked  disheveled  and  careworn,  even  at  this 
early  hour,  as  if  he  had  not  slept  all  night.     Would  I 

be  willing  to  help  Count  d'E in  our  duet,  and  sing 

a  part  of  his  music?  Otherwise,  he  was  sure  it  would 
never  go. 

I  told  him  it  would  not  be  easy  to  sing  tenor;  but  I 
would  see  at  the  rehearsal  what  I  could  do.  He  was  in 
despair.  I  tried  to  tranquilize  him,  my  compassion 
triumphing  over  my  forebodings,  and  assured  him  that 
all  would  go  well.  I  did  not  tell  him  that  I  had  had 
a  succession  of  nightmares  last  night,  where  I  saw  my- 
self stranded  on  the  stage,  having  forgotten  both  words 
and  music. 

He  said  that  he  had  been  on  the  stage  at  work  with 
the  carpenters  since  I  don't  know  when  this  morning. 
They  had  first  put  up  the  scenery  as  he  had  ordered; 
but  he  saw  that  there  would  not  be  space  for  the  eight 
performers  (there  are  two  scenes  where  we  are  all  on 
the  stage  at  once).  Accordingly,  he  had  ordered  the 
carpenters  to  change  it. 

I  ate  my  dejeuner  sandwiched  between  the  tenor 
and  the  basso.  We  rehearsed  our  dialogues,  although 
we  pretended  to  discuss  other  matters. 

The  Empress  went  directly  to  the  Marquis  after  di- 
jeiiner   and   said,    "We   are   looking   forward   to   your 

222 


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TO   MADAME   MOULTON  S   QUESTIONS 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

operetta  to-night  with  real  pleasure,  and  we  are  sure 
that  it  will  be  a  great  success."  The  Marquis  was 
radiant. 

When  we  met  later  in  the  theater  for  our  first  and 
only  rehearsal  we  were  delighted  to  find  there  the 
grand  piano  from  the  salle  de  musique.  The  curtain 
rose  on  a  very  pretty  garden  scene,  with  trees  on  either 
side,  green  linen  on  the  floor  representing  grass,  a  village 
with  a  church-steeple  in  the  background,  and  for  stage 
properties  a  garden  bench  and  a  vase  placed  just  be- 
fore the  footlights,  so  that  it  would  not  interfere  with 
our  movements,  but  would  show  us  where  7iot  to  fall  off. 

The  Marquis  was,  of  course,  at  the  piano,  and  Prince 
Metternich,  as  prompter,  squeezed  into  a  prompter's 
box,  looking  wretchedly  uncomfortable.  We  com- 
menced the  rehearsal,  which,  on  the  whole,  went  off 
better  than  we  expected. 

The  basso  is  the  first  to  appear.  He  sings  a  melan- 
choly song,  in  which  he  makes  known  his  love  for  the 
humble  village  maiden.  His  voice  gets  more  dismal 
and  lower  as  he  becomes  despondent,  and  higher  and 
more  buoyant  as  his  hopes  rise.  At  the  end,  when  he 
sings  "Elle  sera  a  moi,"  his  voice,  though  very  husky, 
was  almost  musical.  Then  I,  as  the  village  maiden, 
enter  with  a  basket,  suggestive  of  butter  and  eggs,  and 
sing  a  sentimental  ditty  telling  of  my  love  for  the  friend 
of  the  lord.  The  music  of  this  is  mediocre  beyond 
words.  The  Marquis  tries  to  show,  by  a  few  high 
soprano  notes,  how  high  my  wildest  flights  of  aspirations 
fly  before  I  could  ever  reach  the  subject  of  my  love. 
"Mes  tourments"  and  "le  doux  plaisir  d 'aimer"  get  so 
mixed  that  I  don't  know  myself  what  I  am  singing  about. 

223 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  lady  of  the  manor  hears  my  lament,  and,  believ- 
ing me  to  be  in  love  with  her  husband,  berates  me  in 
a  dramatic  duet.  The  friend  and  adviser  now  appears, 
and  we  get  through  an  incomprehensible  trio.  He  can- 
not convince  her  (the  lady)  of  the  innocence  of  her 
husband.  She  insists  upon  thinking  him  a  traitor, 
leaves  us  in  a  fury,  and  we  have  the  floor  to  ourselves 
when  we  sing  the  famous  duet  on  account  of  which  the 
Marquis  had  qualms  this  morning.  In  it  there  is  a 
minor  phrase  which  is  quite  intricate,  and  I  saw  that 
unless  I  came  to  d'E 's  rescue  he  could  never  man- 
age it. 

The  lord  and  the  lady  reappear,  while  the  friend  and 
I  retire  in  the  background  and  lean  up  against  the  vil- 
lage steeple  and  whisper.  The  lady  is  violent  and  the 
lord  is  indifferent.  The  music  sounds  like  an  ever- 
lasting grumble,  because  her  voice  is  contralto  and  his 
is  bass.  The  village  maiden  is  called  to  the  front,  and 
denies  everything  she  has  been  accused  of.  The  hus- 
band makes  amends  in  a  phrase  miles  too  high  for  his 
voice.  The  friend  takes  all  the  blame  on  his  black- 
velvet  shoulders,  and  says  he  has  loved  the  maiden  all 
along.  The  maiden  is  overcome  with  emotion  and 
faints  for  joy. 

The  final  quartette  is  a  sad  affair,  musically  speaking, 
constructed  on  the  Marquis's  own  ideas  of  thorough- 
bass. All  the  singers  start  on  the  same  plane,  the 
soprano  soars  heavenward,  the  contralto  and  the  bass 
grovel  in  their  deepest  notes,  while  the  tenor,  who  ought 
to  fill  up  the  gap,  stands  counting  the  measures  on  his 
fingers,  his  eyes  glued  to  the  prompter,  until  he  joins 
me  and  we  soar  together. 

224 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

To  use  a  metaphor,  one  might  say  that  the  contralto 
and  bass  were  in  the  lower  regions,  the  soprano  floating 
in  heaven,  the  tenor  groping  about  on  earth  for  his  note; 
then  we  all  meet  on  the  same  place  we  started  from, 
which  is  the  signal  for  the  chorus  to  unite  their  forces 
with   ours. 

The  Marquis  was  dreadfully  put  out  with  me  because 
I  refused  to  faint  on  the  stage  (in  the  text  it  says  Rosette 
tomhe  evanouie).  He  said  nothing  was  easier.  I  had 
only  to  put  my  arms  out  to  break  the  fall  and — fall. 
He  thought  that  with  a  little  practice  between  the  after- 
noon and  the  evening  I  should  be  able  to  do  it. 

I  could  see  myself  covered  with  bruises  tumbling  about 
over  sofas  and  chairs,  and  I  could  see  the  bewilderment 
of  any  one  coming  into  my  room  while  I  was  practising 
this  part  of  my  role. 

I  said,  "I  absolutely  refuse  to  risk  my  neck."  He 
thought  it  was  very  selfish  of  me.  One  would  have 
thought  that  the  whole  success  of  the  operetta  depended 
on  my  fainting.  He  said  he  could  show  me  how  to  fall 
without  hurting  myself,  and  in  trying  to  do  so  he  tripped 
over  the  vase  and  bumped  his  head  against  the  garden 
bench.  Fortunately  he  did  not  damage  himself,  but  the 
argument  ended  then  and  there. 

At  half-past  four  my  maid  came  to  the  theater  to 
tell  me  that  the  Empress  expected  me  to  tea.  I  had 
thought  she  would,  as  she  had  promised  the  answers 
to  those  questions;  and  so  it  was.  As  soon  as  I  ap- 
peared (I  had  had  time  to  change  my  dress)  the  Em- 
press called  me  to  her  and  said: 

' '  Here  are  the  answers  to  your  American  soul-probing 
questions!     These  are  mine  (giving  me  hers)  and  here 

225 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

are  the  Emperor's.  He  was  very  pleased  to  write  them, 
as  it  was  you  who  asked  him;  besides,  I  think  they 
amused  him.  He  spent  a  long  time  pondering  over 
each  answer.  You  see,"  she  added,  with  her  lovely 
smile,  "nous  vous  aimons  bien." 

I  was  very  glad  to  have  the  answers.     I  copy  them 
for  you. 

A  quelle  quality  donnez-vous  la  preference?    A  la  gratitude. 

Quels  sont  vos  auteurs  favoris?     Tacite. 

Quelles  sont  vos  occupations  favorites?    Chercher  la  solution  de 

problemes  insolubles. 
Qui  voudriez-vous  etre?     Mon  petit  fils. 
Quelles  personnes  de  I'histoire  detestez-vous  le  plus?    Le  Conndtable 

de  Bourbon. 
Pour  quelles  fautes  avez-vous  le  plus  d'indulgence?    Pour  celles 

dont  je  profite.  Napoleon  Louis. 

A  quelle  quality  donnez-vous  la  preference?    Au  devouement. 
Quels  sont  vos  auteurs  favoris?     Calderon,  Byron,  Shakespeare. 
Quelles  sont  vos  occupations  favorites?     Faire  le  bien. 
Qui  voudriez-vous  etre?     Ce  que  je  suis. 

Quelles  personnes  de  I'histoire  detestez-vous  le  plus?    Lopez. 
Pour  quelles  fautes  avez-vous  le  plus  d'indulgence?    Pour  celles  que 
la  passion  excuse.  Eugenie. 

I  add  the  answers  of  Prosper  Merimee: 

A  quelle  qualite  donnez-vous  la  preference?    La  perseverance. 

Quels  sont  vos  auteurs  favoris?    Pr.  Merimee. 

Quelles  sont  vos  occupations  favorites?    Faire   des  chateaxix   en 

Espagne. 
Qui  voudriez-vous  6tre?     Napoleon  III. 

Quelles  personnes  de  I'histoire  detestez-vous  le  plus?    Mazarin. 
Pour   quelles   fautes   avez-vous   le   plus   d'indulgence?     La   gour- 

mandise.  Prosper  Merimee. 

I  think  the  Emperor's  are  very  clever. 
"And  the  operetta?"  inquired  the  Empress. 

226 


A^^       -  ^'^  —    ^^^^^^^^^^     ^^"^^ 


J^n^^    r^  ^^ 


EMPRESS   EUGENIE'S    SIGNATURE    AND   AN 


.:>> 


<.  ' 


TO   MADAME   MOULTON's   QUESTIONS 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"I  hope  your  Majesties  will  be  indulgent,"  I  replied. 

Monsieur  de  Laferriere  was  next  to  me  at  dinner. 
He  was  as  much  interested  in  the  operetta  as  other 
people  seemed  to  be.  I  took  advantage  of  his  being 
my  neighbor  to  ask  him  to  manage  it  so  that  we  could 
leave  the  salon  before  the  cercle  commenced,  as  we  had 
to  dress,  and  if  any  of  us  were  late  I  dared  not  think 
what  the  effect  would  be  on  the  nervous  Marquis. 

The  Emperor  raised  his  glass  during  dinner,  though 
I  sat  very  far  down  the  table.  I  suppose  he  wanted  to 
inspire  me  with  hope  and  courage. 

Monsieur  de  Laferriere  arranged  everything  for  us 
most  amiably.  We  rushed  off  to  our  rooms  to  dress. 
I,  for  one,  was  not  long  over  my  toilette,  and,  followed 
by  my  maid,  hurried  through  the  long  corridors  to  the 
theater. 

We  were  all  there  except  Monsieur  de  V ,  who  was 

no  doubt  still  pottering  over  his  raiment.  The  artist 
he  had  ordered  from  Paris  was  already  there,  brush  in 
hand,  ready  to  paint  us.  The  result  was  very  satis- 
factory. When  we  looked  at  ourselves  in  the  glass  we 
wondered  why  one  should  not  be  beautiful  every  day 
with  so  simple  an  art. 

We  were  rather  taken  back  when  Monsieur  d'Es- 
peuilles  appeared  in  a  wig  and  a  false  mustache;  but 
he  hastened  to  say  there  was  nothing  like  being  dis- 
guised to  put  one  at  one's  ease.  The  gentlemen  of  the 
chorus,  not  willing  to  go  to  any  extra  expense,  had 
culottes  courtes  and  white  stockings;  the  ladies  had  tried 
to  be  more  in  harmony,  but  they  thought  that  with  rakes, 
spades,  and  basket  they  had  quite  enough  couleur  locale. 

The  chamberlain  came  to  ask  whether  their   Maj- 

227 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

esties  should  come  now.  Prince  Metternich  answered 
that  we  were  waiting  for  them.  A  tedious  delay  oc- 
curred before  the  audience  had  settled  into  their  places 
in  accordance  with  their  rank,  to  the  great  annoyance 
of  Prince  Metternich,  shut  up  in  the  small  prompter's 
box,  and  the  Marquis  d'Aoust,  fidgeting  at  the  piano, 
and  driving  us  almost  to  distraction  by  his  repeated 
questions  and  exhortations:  "Do  you  think  you  know 
your  part?  Don't  forget  to" — etc. 

At  last !  at  last !  No  retreating  noT?^-,  Coilte  que  cotlte! 
we  must  take  in  the  plank  and  embark  on  our  shaky  craft. 

The  Marquis  attacked  the  overture  by  playing  some 
vigorous  arpeggios  and  pompous  chords.  The  curtains 
were  drawn  aside  and  the  lord  of  the  manor  entered. 
After  his  monologue,  which  he  did  very  well,  he  hesi- 
tated a  moment.  This  agitated  the  Marquis  to  such 
a  degree  that  he  stood  up  and  waved  his  hand  as  a 
signal  to  him  to  commence  his  song,  and  gave  him  the 

note  on  the  piano.     Monsieur  de  V started  in  all 

right  and  sang  his  song  with  due  sentiment,  and  very 
well.  I  even  think  as  far  back  as  the  sixth  row  of  seats 
they  were  conscious  that  he  was  singing.  His  acting  and 
gestures  were  faultless.     All  Frenchmen  can  act. 

I  thought,  when  I  came  in,  the  public  was  chilly,  and 
I  felt  cold  shivers  running  down  my  back.  My  courage 
was  oozing  out  of  me,  and  when  the  lord  of  the  manor 
said  to  me,  "Rosette,  que  fais-tu  ici?"  and  I  had  to 
answer,  "Ce  que  je  fais,  Monsieur;  mais  vous  voyez 
bien,  je  ne  fais  rien,"  I  thought  I  should  die  of  fright  and 
collapse  on  the  spot.  However,  I  pulled  myself  to- 
gether and  began  my  silly  little  song. 

The  moment  I  began  to  sing  I  felt  at  ease,  and  I 

228 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

flatter  myself  I  gave  a  certain  glaze  to  the  emptiness  of 
the  music.  Madame  Conneau  sang  her  dramatic  aria 
beautifully,  and  created  quite  a  furore.  I  only  wish  the 
music  had  been  more  worthy  of  her.  The  love  duet 
between  the  friend  and  myself  was,  much  to  my  surprise, 
a  great  success.     It  was  encored,  and  we  sang  it  again. 

When  we  came  to  the  minor  passage  (the  stumbling- 
block)  the  Marquis,  who  was  perspiring  at  every  pore 
in  his  dread  that  I  should  not  hit  the  right  note,  pounded 
it  on  the  piano  loud  enough  to  be  heard  all  over  the 
theater.  I  gave  him  a  withering  look,  which  he  pre- 
tended not  to  see.  Perhaps  he  did  not,  for  his  atten- 
tion, like  mine,  was  startled  by  seeing  the  false  mus- 
tache of  Monsieur  d'Espeuilles  ungluing  and  threat- 
ening to  drop  into  his  mouth.  The  Marquis  began 
wagging  his  head  and  making  frantic  signs.  Monsieur 
d'Espeuilles  was  horribly  confused,  and  I  feared  for 
the  success  of  our  da  capo;  but  he  patted  the  now  Hmp 
offender  back  on  his  lip,  and  we  continued  the  duet. 
During  the  applause  the  Marquis  took  the  occasion  to 
wipe  the  perspiration  from  his  bald  head. 

In  spite  of  our  qualms  the  final  quartette  was  not  so 
bad  after  all.  When  it  was  time  for  me  to  come  down 
from  my  upward  flight  in  order  to  help  the  tenor,  the 
Marquis  again  waved  his  right  hand  in  the  air  to  attract 
my  attention,  while  he  thundered  a  tremolo  with  his 
left,  to  keep  the  accompaniment  going  until  he  was  sure 
that  everything  was  right.  The  chorus  came  on  in 
due  order,  and  flourished  their  rakes  and  spades  as 
though  they  were  waving  flags,  in  participation  of  the 
joy  and  gladness  of  the  reconciliation.  There  was  one 
moment  of  genuine  hilarity,  when  the  little  fox-terrier  be- 

16  229 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

longing  to  the  Empress's  niece  rushed  on  to  the  stage 
to  join  his  mistress,  who,  with  great  sang-froid,  picked 
him  up  and  went  on  singing,  to  the  immense  amusement 
of  the  audience. 

It  was  suffocatingly  hot  in  the  little  theater,  and  we 
were  glad  to  think  that  we  had  arrived  at  the  end  of 
our  perilous  journey.  The  red  on  our  cheeks  was  get- 
ting paler;  the  powder  was  becoming  paste;  the  black 
on  the  eyebrowless  actors  began  to  run  down  their 
cheeks;  Monsieur  d'Espeuilles's  wig  and  mustache  were 
all  on  one  side. 

All  these  details  mattered  little,  now  that  the  end  had 
come,  and  the  performance  had  concluded  with  great 
eclat. 

The  happy  Marquis  (though  I  think  he  aged  ten  years 
that  hour  at  the  piano)  was  radiant  with  his  success. 
Every  emotion  had  swept  over  him:  ambition,  vanity, 
hope,  pride,  forbearance,  patience,  long-suffering. 

The  curtain  fell  amid  great  applause,  as  spontaneous 
as  it  was  persistent  and,  I  hope,  genuine. 

We  stayed  in  our  costumes  for  the  tea  in  the  Emperor's 
salon. 

Both  their  Majesties  complimented  the  Marquis,  and 
thanked  us  all  separately  for  the  pleasure  they  had  had 
and  the  trouble  we  had  given  ourselves.  The  Emperor 
said  to  me,  "Vous  vous  etes  surpassee  ce  soir."  I 
courtesied  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  the  music. 

He  hesitated  before  answering.  'T  don't  know  much 
about  music ;  but  it  seems  to  me,  as  Rossini  said  of  the 
music  of  Wagner:  'II  y  a  de  jolis  moments,  mais  de 
mauvais  quarts  d'heures!'  All  the  same,  it  was  very 
pretty." 

230 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Every  one  praised  the  Marquis  to  the  skies,  and  he 
was  really  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight. 

I  am  only  afraid  his  head  will  be  turned,  and  that  he 
will  write  another  chef-d'oeuvre. 

I  was  glad  when  their  Majesties  bade  us  good  night, 
for  I  was   completely  exhausted. 


Paris,  December  5th. 

It  seems  nice,  all  the  same,  to  be  at  home  again.  We 
arrived  in  Paris  at  six  o'clock,  and  at  half -past  seven  I 
was  in  my  bed,  completely  worn  out.  However,  I  must 
tell  you  how  our  visit  ended  the  day  before  yesterday. 
Was  it  only  the  day  before  yesterday  ?  It  seems  months 
ago.  At  dejeuner  the  Princess  Mettemich  sat  on  the 
right  of  the  Emperor,  and  the  Empress's  brother-in-law, 
Duke  d'Albe,  gave  me  his  avant-le-deluge  arm,  and  put 
me  on  the  left  of  his  Majesty. 

I  thought  the  Emperor  looked  tired  and  ill,  and  I 
noticed  he  frequently  put  his  hand  on  his  back,  as  if  he 
was  in  pain.  The  Princess  Mettemich  engrossed  the  Em- 
peror's attention.  She  is  so  witty  and  Hvely  that  every 
one  must  listen  when  she  talks.  All  the  same,  the  Em- 
peror talked  with  me  a  good  deal,  and  thanked  me  for 
having  done  so  much  to  amuse  them.  Never  would 
they  forget  the  pleasure  they  had  had. 

When  we  went  up  to  our  rooms  to  put  on  our  cloaks 
there  was  no  pretentious  majordomo  demanding  his  fee, 
and  our  particular  valet  looked  sad,  and  did  not  meet 
my  eye  when  I  tried  to  catch  his  to  give  a  smile  of  adieu, 
and  persistently  fixed  his  gaze  on  something  at  the  other 
end  of  the  corridor.     I  rather  liked  the  old  way  better, 

231 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

as  one  felt  that  in  a  measure  one  had  made  some  little 
compensation  for  all  the  delightful  days  spent  there. 

I  asked  my  maid  how  the  servants  felt  about  this 
change.  She  said  that  in  their  salle  a  manger  almost 
all  the  maids  and  valets  belonging  to  the  guests  gave 
pourboires. 

After  we  had  made  our  adieux,  and  taken  our  seats 
in  the  different  carriages,  their  Majesties  came  out  on 
the  balcony  to  see  us  depart.  They  waved  their  hands 
in  farewell  as  we  drove  off. 

The  journey  back  to  Paris  was  a  silent  one.  Every 
one  was  occupied  with  his  own  thoughts.  Prince  Met- 
ternich  sat  in  a  corner  talking  with  the  impervious 
diplomat;  I  wondered  if  he  were  relating  the  salad's 
complicated  relationships.  We  all  bade  one  another 
good-by,  adding,  with  assumed  enthusiasm,  that  we 
hoped  to  meet  soon  again,  when  perhaps  we  were  rejoic- 
ing in  the  thought  that  we  would  not  do  so  for  a  long 
time  to  come. 

What  insincere  creatures  we  are! 

May,  1870. 

We  were  invited  to  a  picnic  at  Grand  Trianon,  given 
by  the  Emperor  and  Empress  for  the  Archduke  of 
Austria. 

The  rendezvous  was  to  be  at  St.  Cloud,  and  we  were 
asked  to  be  there  at  four  o'clock.  On  arriving  we  found 
the  Metternichs,  Edouard  Delesert,  Duperre,  and  Count 
Dehm,  the  Austrian  Secretary.  Their  Majesties  and 
the  Prince  Imperial  joined  us  when  we  were  all  assem- 
bled. We  then  mounted  the  two  char-ti-hancs  which 
were  waiting  for  us  in  front  of  the  chateau,  with  their 

232 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

postilions  and  four  horses ;  the  piqucurs,  in  their  saddles, 
were  all  ready  to  precede  us.  The  Emperor,  Empress, 
the  Prince  Imperial,  Princess  Mettemich,  and  the  Arch- 
duke were  in  the  first  carriage;  the  rest  of  us  were  in 
the  second — about  fourteen  people  in  all.  We  drove 
through  the  lovely  forest  of  Marly,  the  long,  tiresome 
avenues  of  Versailles,  and  through  many  roads  known 
probably  only  to  the  postilions,  and  perhaps  used  only 
on  rare  occasions  such  as  this  royal  excursion,  for  they 
were  in  such  a  bad  condition,  ruts  and  stones  every- 
where, that  our  heads  and  shoulders  were  bumping  con- 
tinually against  our  neighbors'.  Finally  we  reached 
Petit  Trianon,  where  we  left  the  carriages  and  servants, 
who  were  ordered  to  meet  us  at  Grand  Trianon  later, 
bringing  our  extra  wraps  with  them.  The  air  was  de- 
liciously  balmy  and  warm,  and  was  filled  with  the  per- 
fume of  lilacs  and  acacias. 

We  wandered  through  the  park,  admiring  the  skill 
of  the  artist  who  had  laid  it  out  so  cleverly,  just  like 
Petit  Val.  This  is  not  surprising,  as  it  was  the  same 
person  who  planned  them  both.  All  the  surroundings 
recall  the  charming  hfe  which  Marie  Antoinette  must 
have  lived  in  the  midst  of  this  pastoral  simplicity. 

I  wondered  if  the  same  thought  passed  through  the 
Empress's  mind  which  passed  through  mine.  Could 
history  ever  repeat  this  unfortunate  queen's  horrible 
fate?  We  continued  our  walk  to  Grand  Trianon,  and 
found  the  table  spread  for  our  dinner  under  the  wide 
charmille,  near  the  lake.  The  Princess  Metternich  sat 
on  the  right  of  the  Emperor,  and  I  on  his  left. 

The  Emperor  was  in  excellent  spirits,  and  bandied 
repartees  with  Monsieur  Delesert,  who  surpassed  himself 

233 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

in  wit,  and  told  many  and  sometimes  rather  risky  stories, 
which  made  every  one  laugh.  The  Prince  Imperial 
could  hardly  wait  till  the  end  of  the  dinner,  he  was  so 
impatient  to  get  to  the  rowboat  which  was  ready  wait- 
ing for  him  on  the  lake.  The  Empress  was  quite  nervous, 
and  stood  on  the  edge  of  the  lake  all  the  time  he  was 
on  the  water,  calling  to  him,  "Prends  garde,  Louis!" 
"Ne  te  penches  pas,  Louis!"  and  many  other  such  coun- 
sels like  any  other  anxious  mother,  and  she  never  took 
her  eyes  from  the  little  boat  which  was  zigzagging  about 
under  the  hands  of  the  youthful  prince. 

It  was  after  nine  o'clock  when  we  started  to  return 
to  St.  Cloud  by  another  route.  The  piqueur,  finding  the 
gate  locked  through  which  we  had  to  pass,  knocked  on 
the  door  of  the  lodge-keeper,  who,  awakened  from  his 
slumbers,  appeared  in  a  deshabille  more  than  hasty,  in- 
tending to  administer  a  savon  (scolding)  to  such  tardy 
comers.  But  on  hearing  from  the  piqueur  that  the 
monarch  of  all  he  surveyed  was  waiting  in  the  carriage, 
he  flew  to  open  the  gate,  disclosing  his  scanty  night- 
attire.  The  funniest  part  of  it  was  that,  as  soon  as  he 
realized  the  situation,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  show 
his  patriotism,  so  he  stood  on  the  steps  of  his  lodge  and, 
as  we  passed  through  the  gate,  he  chanted  a  hoarse  and 
sleepy!  "Vive  I'Empereur!"  and  waved  his  smoking 
candle. 

The  Emperor  was  convulsed  with  laughter.  I,  who 
sat  behind  him,  could  see  his  shoulders  shaking. 

The  ball  of  the  plebiscite  was  the  most  splendid  thing 
I  ever  saw.  The  architects  and  decorators  had  out- 
done themselves.  The  gardens  of  the  Tuileries  beyond 
the  fountain  had  been  hedged  in  by  orange-trees,  and 

234 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

other  large  trees  moved  there  in  their  tubs.  The  whole 
parterre  of  flowers  was  festooned  with  lanterns  and  lit- 
tle colored  lamps,  making  this  fairy  scene  as  bright  as 
day.  The  ballroom  and  adjoining  salons,  of  which 
the  windows  had  been  removed  as  well  as  the  iron  railing 
outside  of  them,  led  on  to  a  large  platform  which  oc- 
cupied the  space  of  six  such  windows  or  doors;  these 
gave  out  into  two  colossal  staircases  which  descended 
into  the  garden.  It  was  such  a  beautiful  night,  so  warm 
that  we  ladies  could  walk  about  in  our  ball-dresses  without 
any  extra  wraps;  there  were  about  six  thousand  people 
invited,  they  said.     It  seemed  as  if  all  Paris  was  there. 

After  the  quadrille  d'honneur  their  Majesties  circu- 
lated freely  about.  Every  one  was  eager  to  offer  con- 
gratulations to  the  Emperor.  Was  it  not  the  greatest 
triumph  of  his  reign  to  have  the  unanimous  vote  of  all 
France — this  overwhelming  proof  of  his  popularity  ?  As 
he  stood  there  smiling,  with  a  gracious  acknowledgment 
of  the  many  compliments,  he  looked  radiantly  happy  to 
thus  receive  the  homage  of  his  country.  As  the  Emperor 
passed  near  me  I  added  my  congratulations,  to  which  he 
replied,  "Merci,  je  suis  bien  heureux." 

Their  Majesties  stood  on  the  dais  with  the  members 
of  the  Imperial  family,  and  after  watching  the  dance 
they  all  went  in  to  the  Pavilion  de  Flore,  where  supper 
was  served  for  the  notabilities. 

For  the  others  there  was  arranged  a  supper  in  the 
theater;  an  orchestra  on  the  stage  played  all  the  time; 
the  balconies  were  festooned  with  flowers  and  filled  with 
guests;  there  were  supper-tables  in  the  parquet  and  in 
the  largest  loges,  and  plants  and  shrubs  placed  in  every 
available  spot. 

235 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

London,  June,  1870. 

Dear  M., — What  will  you  think  of  your  dissipated 
daughter  ?  Do  you  not  think  that  she  is  insatiable  ?  I 
am  sure  that  you  will  say  that  I  ought  to  be  contented 
after  the  long  season  of  gaiety  and  excitement  in  Paris, 
and  settle  down  in  lovely  Petit  Val,  where  the  lilacs  and 
the  violets  call  one  with  scented  voices. 

However,  we  decided  to  go  to  London. 

Did  I  write  to  you  of  our  breakfast  at  Armenonville? 
After  Lord  Lyons's  ball,  which  lasted  until  six  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  Prince  Mettemich  and  several  others 
thought  that  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  go  home,  change 
our  ball-dresses  for  morning-dress,  and  go  out  to  the 
Bois  for  our  morning  coffee.     We  did  it. 

I  confess  that  it  was  a  crazy  thing  to  do  after  dancing 
all  night;  but  the  beautiful  May  morning,  the  glorious 
sunshine,  and  our  spirits  inspired  us  to  carry  out  this 
wild  whim,  much  to  the  disgust  of  our  sleepy  coachmen. 
This  excursion  was  not  a  success;  we  were  all  tired  and 
longed  for  bed.  One  cannot  be  amusing  or  en  train  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  And  as  for  the  family, 
when  we  returned  home  all  the  comment  they  made 
was,  "What  fools!"  They  did  not  see  any  fun  in  it; 
neither  did  we,  to  tell  the  truth. 

The  Rothschilds,  Lord  Lyons,  and  Prince  and  Prin- 
cess Mettemich  gave  us  what  must  have  been  very 
powerful  letters,  for  we  had  hardly  been  in  London  more 
than  a  few  days  before  we  knew  every  one  worth  know- 
ing, and  all  doors  worth  opening  were  opened  to  us,  and 
I  found  myself  what  one  calls  lancee. 

We  took  rooms  in  Park  Street;  that  is,  we  had  the 

236 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

two  stories  of  the  house.  The  landlady  lived  down- 
stairs, and  gave  us  our  meals  when  we  were  at  home. 
As  soon  as  we  got  settled  we  left  our  cards  and  letters 
of  introduction. 

Invitation  followed  invitation  in  the  most  bewilder- 
ing manner,  sometimes  several  for  the  same  day. 

I  could  not  begin  to  tell  you  all  that  we  have  already 
done.  Writing  letters  seems  to  be  the  one  thing  which 
I  have  no  time  for.  It  is  a  perpetual  push  and  rush 
from  morning  till  night. 

Our  first  dinner  was  at  Baron  and  Baroness  Roth- 
schilds', where  the  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales  and  a 
great  many  distinguished  people  were  invited.  I  sat 
next  to  a  Mr.  Osboume — everybody  called  him  Dick. 
He  told  me  that  he  was  the  most  dined-out  and  tired- 
out  man  in  London,  and  that  he  had  not  eaten  at  home 
for  six  months. 

I  had  not  seen  their  Royal  Highnesses  since  their 
visit  to  Paris  during  the  Exposition.  They  said  that 
they  remembered  me;  but  I  cannot  think  it  possible 
that  they  can  have  such  wonderful  memories. 

I  never  saw  such  a  splendid  collection  of  orchids  as 
there  was  on  the  table,  and  each  lady  had  a  bouquet  of 
orchids  and  roses  by  her  plate, 

I  was  asked  to  sing,  and  was  delighted  to  do  it.  The 
Rothschilds'  ballroom  was  a  glorious  place  in  which 
to  make  a  debut. 

Michael  Costa,  the  well-known  musician,  came  after 
dinner  and  accompanied  me  in  the  "Cavatina"  from 
"Rigoletto,"  and  the  waltz  from  the  "Pardon  de 
Ploermel." 

Lady  Sherbourne,  a  charming  lady  whom  I  fell  in 

237 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

love  with  at  first  sight,  sang  also.  She  has  a  beautiful, 
rich  contralto  voice,  and  sang  with  a  great  deal  of  ex- 
pression an  English  song  called,  "Out  on  the  rocks 
when  the  tide  is  low." 

In  your  last  letter  you  wrote,  "I  am  afraid  that  you 
are  on  the  way  to  become  conceited."  I  am  afraid  myself 
I  am,  still  I  cannot  resist  telling  you,  this  once,  that  my 
audience  was  very  enthusiastic  and  Mr.  Costa  said — 
well,  I  won't  tell  you  what  he  said;  it  might  sound  con- 
ceited. The  last  thing  I  sang  was  "Beware!"  which  was 
immensely   appreciated. 

The  Prince  of  Wales  said:  "That  is  a  bewitching  song. 
I  never  heard  it  before.     Who  composed  it?" 

I  told  him  that  it  was  written  for  me  by  my  husband, 
and  Longfellow  had  written  the  words. 

The  Princess,  before  leaving,  said,  "I  cannot  tell  you 
how  much  pleasure  you  have  given  us  this  evening; 
we  hope  to  see  you  often  while  you  are  in  London." 
She  is  very  beautiful,  even  handsomer  than  when  I  saw 
her  last.  Baroness  Rothschild  kissed  me,  and  thanked 
me  for  having  sung  for  her. 

Call  me  vain  and  conceited  if  you  will,  my  head 
is  turned,  and  there  is  nothing  more  to  be  said 
about  it! 

A  luncheon  at  "Caroline,  Duchess  of  Montrose's," 
at  two  o'clock  upset  me  for  the  whole  day.  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  those  big  dejeuners-dinatoires.  I  was 
sleepy  and  felt  good  for  nothing  the  rest  of  the  day ;  and 
when  we  dined  at  Lady  Molesworth's  that  evening,  "to 
meet  their  Royal  Highnesses  the  Prince  and  Princess 
of  Wales,"  and  wanted  to  be  extra  up-to-the-mark,  I 
felt    just    the    contrary.      However,    after    dinner    the 

238 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Prince  of  Wales  asked  me  to  sing,  and  I  did  not  refuse, 
and  even  sang  most  of  the  evening.  There  was  a  charm- 
ing Baron  Hochschild,  the  Swedish  Minister,  who  sang 
delightfully.  He  is  a  thorough  musician,  and  accom- 
panied himself  perfectly  with  all  the  aplomb  of  an  artist. 
He  has  a  deep,  rich  barytone,  and  his  repertoire  con- 
sisted of  all  the  well-known  old  Italian  songs.  Lady 
Molesworth  is  a  beautiful  old  lady,  who  must  have  been 
a  great  beauty  in  her  youth.  She  wears  curls  just 
like  yours,  dear  mama,  which  made  me  love  her.  I 
met  here  Arthur  Sullivan;  he  was  full  of  compli- 
ments. 

The  next  day  we  were  invited  to  a  matinee  musicale 
at  Lady  Dudley's,  preceded  by  a  luncheon,  which  Mr. 
Osbourne  called  "a  snare,"  because,  he  said,  I  could  not 
refuse  to  sing.  I  did  not  want  to  refuse,  either.  The 
piano  was  in  the  beautiful  picture-gallery,  all  full  of 
Greuze's  pictures  bought  from  the  Vatican;  it  has  the 
most  wonderful  acoustics,  and  the  voice  sounded  splen- 
didly in  it.  Lady  Dudley  is  a  celebrated  beauty.  Lord 
Dudley — before  he  succeeded  to  the  title — was  Lord 
Ward.  The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Sutherland  asked  us 
to  dine.  This  was  a  very  imposing  affair;  the  Duke 
of  Cambridge  was  at  the  dinner  as  the  grosse  pidce,  and 
there  were  many  diplomats.  After  dinner  several 
artists  came  from  Covent  Garden,  and  among  them 
Madame  Patti,  who  sang  the  "Cavatina"  of  "Lucia," 
with  flute  accompaniment,  and  how  beautifully! 

When  I  was  introduced  to  her  I  said,  "The  first  time 
I  heard  you  sing  was  years  ago  when  I  was  a  little  girl 
and  you  were  in  short  dresses." 

"Where  was  that?" 

239 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"In  Rochester,"  I  replied.  "I  shall  never  forget  how 
exquisitely  you  sang  'Ah!  non  giunge'  and  'Ernani.'" 

"Yes,  I  remember  quite  well.  I  was  singing  in  con- 
certs with  Ole  Bull;  but  that  was  a  long  time  ago." 

"It  was  indeed,"  I  said;  "but  I  have  never  forgotten 
your  voice,  nor  a  lovely  song  you  sang  which  I  have 
never  heard  since,  called  'Happy  Birdling  of  the  Forest.' 
And  your  trill!     Just  like  the  bird  itself!"  • 

We  became  quite  good  friends,  and  she  made  me 
promise  to  come  to  see  her.  She  is  charming.  Every 
one  was  most  enthusiastic.  Some  one  said  she  gets  a 
thousand  pounds  for  an  evening.  The  Marquis  de  Caux 
(her  husband)  looked  rather  out  of  place.  It  seemed 
queer  to  see  him  again,  not  as  the  brilliant  Marquis  of  the 
Tuileries  (the  "beau"  par  excellence),  but  simply  as  the 
husband  of  Patti.  He  did  not  find  a  chance  to  speak 
to  me. 

Some  days  later  Lady  Anglesey  gave  a  luncheon  for 
me.  On  the  invitations  were,  "To  meet  Mrs.  Moulton." 
I  read  between  the  lines:  to  hear  Mrs.  Moulton  sing. 
They  always  put  on  their  invitations,  "To  meet"  so 
and  so. 

Mr.  Quimby  said  to  me,  "I  liked  you  from  the  first 
moment  I  saw  you,  but  I  had  no  idea  you  were  going 
to  be  such  a  beast."  "Beast!"  I  echoed.  "That  is  not 
very  complimentary."  "A  lion  is  a  beast,  isn't  it?" 
he  jokingly  replied. 

"Am  I  going  to  be  a  lion?     I  did  not  know  it." 

"Well,  you  are  a  lioness,  which  is  better." 

He  is  considered  the  wit  of  London,  and  this  is  a 
specimen  of  his  wit.     What  do  you  think? 

At  the  luncheon  there  were  Jacques  Blumenthal,  the 

240 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

famous  pianist  and  composer,  and  Arthur  Sullivan, 
who  asked  me  to  sing  in  his  little  operetta,  which  some 
amateurs  are  rehearsing  for  a  soiree  at  Lady  Harring- 
ton's; and  on  my  acceptance  he  brought  the  music 
for  me  to  try  over  with  him  the  next  morning.  The 
soiree  was  to  be  three  days  later.  The  music  is  nothing 
remarkable;  in  fact,  the  whole  thing  (it  is  called  "The 
Prodigal  Son")  is  not  worthy  of  him.  I  have  not  met 
any  of  my  fellow-performers  yet.  Forgive  this  jerky 
letter;  I  have  been  interrupted  a  thousand  times. 
Charles  thinks  it  is  time  to  go  back  to  Paris;  but  we 
have  just  received  an  invitation  from  Baron  Alfred 
Rothschild  to  spend  Ascot  week — a  sejour  de  sept  jours — 
with  a  party  at  a  house  he  has  hired  for  the  race-week 
there,  and  I  could  not  resist. 


Ascot,  London,  June,  iSyo. 

Dear  M., —  Viscount  Sydney  thought  that  we  ought 
to  ask  for  an  audience  of  the  Princess  of  Wales,  and  we 
did  it.  The  audience  was  accorded,  and  we  presented 
ourselves  at  the  appointed  hour  and  were  received  by 
the  lady  of  honor  and  shown  into  the  beautifully  ar- 
ranged drawing-room.  The  Princess  was  most  gracious; 
she  certainly  is  the  loveliest  lady  I  have  ever  seen.  I 
told  her  we  were  going  to  Ascot  for  the  week,  and  she 
said  that  they  were  also  going  there  and  hoped  they 
would  see  us.  Our  interview  came  to  an  end,  as  such 
interviews  do,  without  anything  very  interesting  hap- 
pening, and,  finally,  we  backed  ourselves  out  of  the 
royal  presence. 

That  evening  there  was  a  ball  at  Lady  Waldegrave's, 

241 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

who  lives  at  Strawberry  Hill,  a  mile  or  two  out  of  Lon- 
don. Baron  Alfred  Rothschild  offered  to  take  us  out 
there  in  his  coach-and-four.  We  dined  first  with  the 
Baron  Meyer  Rothschild,  and  afterward  drove  out  to 
Strawberry  Hill.  It  is  the  most  beautiful  place  you 
can  imagine.  I  never  saw  anything  so  grand  as  the 
cedar- trees. 

The  cotillon  lasted  very  late;  the  Duke  of  Saxe- 
Weimar  talked  a  long  time  with  me,  mostly  about 
music.  He  is  very  musical,  and  knows  Liszt  inti- 
mately, and  told  me  a  quantity  of  anecdotes  about  him. 
He  was  interested  in  what  I  told  him  about  Liszt's 
going  to  the  Conservatoire  with  Auber  and  me,  and 
about  the  "Tannhauser"  overture  incident.  It  was  six 
o'clock  when  we  drove  back  to  London.  We  saw  the 
milk-carts  on  their  morning  rounds  and  the  street- 
sweepers  at  work.  One  felt  ashamed  of  oneself  at 
being  in  ball-dress  and  jewels  at  this  early  hour,  gallop- 
ing through  the  streets  in  a  fine  carriage,  making  such 
a  dreadful  contrast  to  the  poor  working-people. 

I  had  great  fun  at  Lady  Harrington's  musical  soiree, 
where  Arthur  Sullivan's  "Prodigal  Son"  was  to  be 
sung. 

We  had  been  dining  at  Lady  Londonderry's,  and  ar- 
rived rather  late  at  Lady  Harrington's.  The  whole 
staircase  was  crowded  with  people,  and  even  down  in 
the  hall  it  was  so  full  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  that  there 
was  no  question  of  moving  about.  However,  I  made 
my  way  as  far  as  the  stairs,  every  one  wondering  at  my 
audacity,  and  I  murmured  gently: 

"May  I  pass?"  There  was  a  chorus  of  "Quite  im- 
possible!" "Perfectly  useless!"  and  other  such  discourag- 

242 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ing  remarks.  I  said  to  a  gentleman  who  sat  stolidly  on 
his  step: 

' '  Do  you  think  I  could  send  word  to  Mr.  Sullivan  that 
the  Prodigal  Son's  mother  cannot  get  to  him?" 

"What  do  you  mean?"  said  he.     "Are  you " 

"Yes,  I  am;  and  if  you  don't  let  me  pass  you  won't 
have  any  music." 

You  should  have  seen  them  jump  up  and  make  a  path- 
way for  me.  I  marched  through  it  like  the  children  of 
Israel  through  the  Red  Sea.  I  was  enchanted  to  have 
my  little  fun.  I  joined  the  other  performers,  and  the 
mother  of  the  Prodigal  Son  was  received  with  open  arms. 
The  Prodigal  Son's  father  was  pathos  itself,  and  we 
rejoiced  together  over  our  weak  tenor-boy.  The  only 
fatted  calves  that  were  to  be  seen  belonged  to  the  fat 
flunkeys. 

We  had  a  beautiful  time  at  Ascot.  Alfred  Rothschild 
was  an  excellent  host.  Among  the  other  guests  were  the 
Archibald  Campbells,  the  Hochschilds,  Mr.  Osboume, 
the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Newcastle,  Hon.  and  Mrs. 
Stoner,  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  Queen,  Mr.  Mitford, 
and  others.  Lady  Campbell  had  only  one  dress  with 
her  (they  must  be  very  poor !) ;  it  was  a  black  velvet 
(fancy,  in  the  middle  of  summer!).  She  wore  it  high- 
necked  for  the  races  in  the  daytime  and  low-necked  in 
the  evening.  We  drove  to  Ascot  every  day  at  one 
o'clock.  We  had  seats  in  the  Queen's  stand,  and  after 
seeing  one  race  we  went  to  lunch  with  Mr.  Delane, 
who  had  open  table  for  one  hundred  people  every  day. 
Mr.  Delane  belongs  to  the  Times  newspaper. 

Baron  Rothschild  had  carte-blanche  to  bring  any  guest, 
or  as  many  as  he  liked.     The  Prince  of  Wales  always 

243 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

lunched  there,  and  any  one  that  was  of  importance  was 
sure  to  be  present.  I  made  many  new  acquaintances, 
and  you  may  imagine  how  I  enjoyed  this  ghmpse  of  a 
world  so  entirely  unknown  to  me.  The  races  at  Long- 
champs,  Auteuil,  and  Chantilly  I  had  seen  many  times; 
but  I  never  saw  anything  like  this  exciting  and  bewilder- 
ing scene. 

The  Prince  of  Wales  gave  a  ball  at  Cooper's  Hill  (the 
house  they  had  hired  for  the  Ascot  week),  which  was 
very  charming  and  sans  fag  on.  I  danced  the  cotillon 
with  Baron  Rothschild  and  a  waltz  with  the  Prince  of 
Wales.  The  supper,  which  we  had  in  the  palm-garden, 
was  an  elaborate  affair.  We  drove  home  in  the  early 
morning,  just  as  the  day  was  breaking. 

The  next  day  we  lunched  first  at  the  barracks,  and 
then  afterward  went  to  Virginia  Water,  where  the 
Princess  of  Wales  had  arranged  a  picnic.  There  was 
boating  on  the  pretty  lake  and  tents  on  the  lawn;  tea 
was  served  during  the  afternoon,  and  a  military  band 
played  the  whole  time.  The  great  attraction  was  the 
echo.  We  all  had  to  try  our  voices,  and  the  gentlemen 
made  bets  as  to  how  many  times  the  echo  would  be 
heard.  Some  loud,  piercing  voices  were  repeated  as 
many  as  eight  times. 

Here  we  bid  our  kind  host  good-by  and  took  the 
train  for  Twickenham.  We  passed  the  night  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Hoffman  at  their  villa.  The  next  day  we 
were  invited  to  a  croquet  -  party  and  dinner  by  the 
Count  and  Countess  de  Paris. 

We  arrived  at  Twickenham  Court  at  four  o'clock,  and 
began  playing  our  game  directly.  Mrs.  Hoffman  had 
been  praising  me  to  the  Countess  de  Paris  to  such  a 

244 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

degree  that  she  was  fired  with  ambition  to  play  against 
a  "champion"  of  the  first  water,  When  we  appeared 
on  the  ground  I  noticed  that  the  Countess  had  a  small 
ivory  mallet.  "This,"  I  said  to  myself,  "is  a  foregone 
conclusion;  any  one  who  plays  with  a  fancy  mallet,  and 
that  of  ivory,  is  sure  to  be  beaten."  And  in  my  con- 
ceit I  thought  I  need  not  give  myself  much  trouble 
about  the  game.  Alas!  I  never  appreciated  the  saying 
that  "pride  has  a  fall"  until  that  day.  At  first  I  played 
with  utter  indifference,  I  was  so  sure  of  winning,  and 
even  when  the  Countess  de  Paris  walked  triumphantly 
over  the  ground,  carrying  everything  before  her,  I 
smiled  inwardly,  saying  to  myself,  "Just  wait."  But 
though  I  played  my  very  best  I  never  scored  a  game, 
and  I  could  not  even  make  a  decent  stroke.  I  felt  so 
discouraged,  and  I  was  beaten  all  to  pieces.  The  din- 
ner was  solemn  and  impressive,  the  whole  Orleans 
family  being  present. 

The  Prince  de  Joinville,  the  Duke  de  Chartres,  and 
the  Count  de  Paris,  with  their  wives;  in  all,  about  twenty 
at  table.  I  was  disgusted  with  myself,  provoked  at  my 
silly  self-assurance,  and  mortified  that  I  had  been  beaten 
d  plate  couture,  which  in  English  means  that  all  my  seams 
had  been  turned  down  and  ironed,  and  all  my  feathers 
were  drooping. 

We  were  (at  least  I  was)  glad  to  escape  at  ten  o'clcock. 
I  don't  think  I  ever  was  so  tired.  The  week  at  Ascot, 
the  picnic  at  Virginia  Water,  the  balls,  and  the  late 
sitting-up  at  night,  all  told  on  my  nerves,  and  instead 
of  resting  at  the  Hoffmans',  I  passed  a  miserable  and 
restless  night. 

The  following  day  we  returned  to  London  in  time  to 

17  245 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

drive  out,  at  one  o'clock,  with  the  Lionel  Rothschilds  to 
their  country-place.  It  is  the  most  magnificent  estate; 
the  cedar-trees  are  particularly  beautiful,  and  the  broad 
lawn,  which  stretches  out  in  front  of  the  house,  is  the 
finest  I  have  ever  seen.  Baron  Rothschild  himself 
drove  the  coach  and  four  horses,  and  we  spun  along  the 
fine  road,  passing  Richmond  and  all  the  pretty  villas 
and  gardens,  which  were  full  of  roses.  It  was  my  birth- 
day, and  I  had  many  splendid  presents.  From  Baroness 
Rothschild  I  received  a  superb  traveling-bag,  all  the 
fittings  of  silver  gilt,  with  my  initials.  Baron  Alfred 
Rothschild  gave  me  a  smelling-bottle,  with  the  colors 
of  his  racing-stables  in  enamel.  We  had  a  deHghtful 
luncheon,  and  got  back  to  London  in  time  for  dinner  at 
Lady  Sherbourne's.  On  hearing  it  was  my  birthday, 
she  took  a  diamond-ring  from  her  finger  and  gave  it 
to  me. 

More  balls,  more  dinners,  luncheons,  and  garden- 
parties  followed  one  another. 

We  intend  to  leave  London  after  the  ball  at  Marl- 
borough House.  I  must  go  home,  as  I  have  nothing 
more  to  wear.  We  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  the 
garden-party  given  by  the  Princess  of  Wales  at  Chis- 
wick  (their  charming  country-place).  All  the  beauty 
and  elegance  of  London  graced  the  occasion.  The 
Princess  looked  exquisite  in  her  dainty  summer  toilette, 
and  had  a  pleasant  smile  for  every  one.  The  Prince 
circulated  among  the  guests,  speaking  to  every  one  in 
his  usual  genial  manner.  The  three  little  Princesses 
looked  like  three  fluffy  pink  pin-cushions  covered  with 
white  muslin.  On  the  extensive  lawn,  which  was  like 
a  green- velvet  carpet,  the  ladies  strolled  about  in  their 

246 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pretty,  fresh  dresses,  sometimes  sitting  at  the  Httle 
tables  which  were  shaded  by  large  Japanese  umbrellas 
placed  between  the  terrace  and  the  walk.  It  was  a 
garden  of  living  flowers. 

The  Prince  of  Wales,  in  his  peculiarly  abrupt  manner, 
said  to  me,  "What  have  you  been  doing  since  Ascot?" 

' '  I  have  been  doing  a  great  deal,  sir :  dining  and  dancing 
and  enjoying  myself  generally." 

'T  am  glad  to  know  that.     Been  singing?" 

"Not  much,  sir.  We  dined  at  Twickenham  Court, 
where  I  played  a  disastrous  game  of  croquet,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"Do  they  play  croquet  at  Twickenham  Court?" 

"Indeed  they  do,  sir.  The  Countess  de  Paris  plays 
a  very  good  game." 

"What  day  did  you  dine  there?" 

"On  the  17th,  your  Highness,"  I  replied. 

"Are  you  sure  it  was  the  17th  you  dined  there?" 

"Yes,  I  am  quite  sure.  I  know  it,  because  it  was  the 
day  before  my  birthday." 

"Was  it  a  large  dinner?" 

"It  was  rather  large.  The  whole  Orleans  family  was 
there,  and  some  others." 

' '  Did  you  know  that  they  had  had  a  conseil  de  famille 
that  day?" 

"No,"  I  answered;  "I  heard  nothing  of  it." 

The  Prince  continued:  "The  whole  family  signed  a 
petition  to  the  Emperor  Napoleon  to  be  allowed  to  re- 
turn to  France  and  serve  in  the  army.  Can  you  imag- 
ine why  they  want  to  go  back  to  France  when  they  can 
live  quietly  here  and  be  out  of  politics?"  the  Prince  said. 

"Do  you  think,  sir,  that  the  Emperor  will  refuse?" 

247 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"One  never  knows,"  said  the  Prince.  "Qui  vivra 
verra." 

The  Marlborough  ball  was  very  magnificent.  The 
Princess  of  Wales  looked  exquisite.  She  is  very  lovely, 
and  has  gracious,  sweet  manners.  I  don't  wonder  that 
her  people  adore  her;  and  I  think  the  Prince  is  just  as 
good  as  he  can  be. 

July,  1870. 

On  our  return  from  London  I  remained  quietly  at 
delightful  Petit  Val. 

On  the  loth  of  July  we  received  an  invitation  to  a 
dinner  at  St.  Cloud,  but  unfortunately  we  had  prom- 
ised Baroness  Rothschild  to  spend  some  days  at  Fer- 
rieres,  and  when  the  invitation  came  we  were  obliged 
to  send  a  telegram  to  St.  Cloud  expressing  our  regrets. 
There  is  such  a  talk  of  war,  and  so  many  rumors  afloat, 
that  every  one  is  more  than  excited.  Alphonse  Roth- 
schild says  that,  if  there  should  be  a  war,  it  will  be  a 
tremendous  one,  and  that  Germany  is  better  prepared 
than  France.  "But,"  said  he,  "you  ought  to  know 
about  that,  as  your  brother-in-law  Hatzfeldt  is  in  the 
secrets  of  his  country." 

"That's  just  it,"  I  answered;  "because  he  is  in  the 
secrets  of  his  country  he  is  the  last  person  to  learn  any- 
thing from,  and  we  (the  family)  would  be  the  last  to 
know.  But  do  you  think  that,  if  war  were  really  immi- 
nent, the  Emperor  would  think  of  giving  a  dinner?" 
I  asked. 

"That  might  be.  We  don't  yet  know  what  the  result 
of  Benedetti's  interview  with  the  King  of  Prussia  at  Ems 
will  be,"  the  Baron  answered. 

248 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

We  stayed  at  Ferrieres  until  the  14th,  and  returned 
to  Petit  Val,  where  we  received  another  invitation  to 
St.  Cloud  for  the  17th,  which  we  accepted.  On  the  15th 
we  went  to  Chamarande,  returning  to  Paris  on  the 
following  afternoon.  The  Duke  de  Persigny  was  not 
at  Chamarande,  otherwise  we  should  have  been  a  little 
more  au  courant  of  how  desperate  things  looked  in  Paris. 
The  Duchess  had  a  word  from  the  Duke  the  night  be- 
fore, "and  he  seemed,"  she  said,  "very  despondent." 
But  I  remarked,  as  I  did  before,  "Things  could  not  be 
so  threatening  if  they  were  giving  a  dinner."  "Je  n'y 
comprends  rien,"  she  replied,  which  was  her  invariable 
answer  to  any  doubt  expressed,  or  when  one  wanted  a 
direct  response. 

We  got  back  to  town  at  half-past  five,  and  I  soon 
began  dressing  for  the  dinner.  We  drove  out  to  St. 
Cloud,  and  arrived  at  the  door  of  the  chateau  just 
before  seven  o'clock.  What  was  our  astonishment  at 
not  seeing  any  of  the  numerous  servants  who  generally 
were  waiting  in  the  vestibule.  There  was  only  one  man 
to  be  seen. 

I  began  taking  off  my  mantle,  still  wondering,  when 
Monsieur  de  Laferriere  came  quickly  out  from  one  of 
the  salons  and  said  excitedly,  "Did  you  not  receive 
my  letter  countermanding  the  dinner?" 

"Countermanding  the  dinner!  What?  Then  there 
is  no  dinner?" 

"No,"  he  rejoined;  "it  has  been  countermanded." 

As  our  carriage  could  not  yet  have  got  very  far  off, 
nothing  was  easier  than  to  call  it  back  and  return  to 
Paris.  And  I  put  on  my  wrap  to  depart,  and  stood 
there  waiting  for  the  coup6.     Then  Monsieur  de  La- 

249 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    x\I  EMORY 

ferriere  came  out  again  and  said,  "Her  Majesty  says 
that,  now  that  you  are  here,  you  had  better  stay." 

"But,"  I  protested,  "it  is  much  better  for  us  to  go 
back." 

He  looked  puzzled  and  said,  "But  the  Empress  de- 
sires it;   you  cannot  well  refuse,  can  you?" 

"We  will  do  as  you  advise." 

"Then  I  advise  you  to  stay,"  he  answered. 

And  stay  we  did,  and  I  never  regretted  anything  so 
much  in  my  life. 

When  we  went  into  the  drawing-room  their  Majesties 
were  already  there.  The  Empress  came  toward  me 
and  said  kindly,  "How  do  you  do?"  The  Emperor 
held  out  his  hand,  but  did  not  say  a  word.  He  looked 
so  ill  and  tired.  Never  had  I  seen  him  look  like  that! 
The  Prince  Imperial  seemed  preoccupied  and  very 
serious. 

Dinner  was  announced;  the  Emperor  gave  his  arm 
to  the  Empress,  and  the  Prince  gave  me  his.  There  was 
no  one  beside  ourselves  and  the  Household,  perhaps 
twenty  in  all,  and  dinner  was  served  in  the  small  dining- 
room  looking  toward  Paris.  On  the  other  side  of  me 
was  Count  d'Arjuson,  aide-de-camp  to  the  Emperor. 

You  may  imagine  that  I  wished  myself  a  hundred 
miles  away.  The  Emperor  never  uttered  a  word;  the 
Empress  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  Emperor,  and 
did  not  speak  to  a  single  person.  No  one  spoke.  The 
Emperor  would  receive  telegram  upon  telegram;  the 
gentleman  sitting  next  to  him  opened  the  telegrams  and 
put  them  before  his  Majesty.  Every  now  and  again 
the  Emperor  would  look  across  the  table  to  the  Empress 
with  such  a  distressed  look  it  made  me    think    that 

250 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

something  terrible  was  happening,  which  was  true.  I 
could  not  learn  much  from  my  surroundings,  as  dead 
silence  reigned.  The  dinner  was  very  simple.  How  dif- 
ferent from  the  gorgeous  repasts  of  Compiegne,  and  how  sad 
every  one  looked !  I  was  glad  when  the  signal  for  leaving 
the  table  was  given  and  we  re-entered  the  drawing-room. 

The  Emperor  was  immediately  surrounded  by  his 
gentlemen.  The  Empress  moved  a  little  way  off,  but 
without  taking  her  eyes  from  her  husband.  The  Prince 
Imperial  stood  by  his  father,  watching  him.  Then  the 
Empress  advanced  toward  his  Majesty  and  took  his 
arm  to  leave  the  room.  Just  as  she  neared  the  door 
she  looked  at  me,  turned  back,  and  coming  up  to  where 
I  was  standing  held  out  her  hand  and  said,  "Bonsoir." 
The  Emperor  stood  a  moment  irresolutely,  then,  bowing 
his  head,  left  the  room  with  the  Empress  on  his  arm, 
the  Prince  following. 

We  bade  the  dames  d'honneur  good  night  and  fled, 
found  the  coupe  before  the  entrance,  and  weren't  we 
glad  to  get  in  it  and  drive  away?  I  never  in  my  life  felt 
what  it  was  to  be  de  trop  and  even  deux  de  trop.  We 
reached  the  Rue  de  Courcelles  at  nine  o'clock.  It  was 
too  early  to  go  to  bed,  and  so  I  am  sitting  in  my  dressing- 
gown,  while  Charles  has  gone  to  his  club  to  learn  the 
latest  news. 

igth  July. 

This  morning  war  was  declared  for  sure,  and  they 
say  that  the  Emperor  is  leaving  soon  with  the  Prince. 
Every  one  is  very  confident  of  the  success  of  the  French 
Army,  and  people  go  about  in  the  streets  singing  "A 
Berlin"  to  the  tune  of  "Les  lampions." 

251 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY. 

Petit  Val,  28th  July. 

The  Emperor,  with  the  Prince,  left  this  morning 
for  Metz,  to  take  the  command  of  the  army.  He  did 
not  come  into  Paris,  but  in  order  to  avoid  demon- 
strations, noise,  etc.,  had  a  platform  put  up  on  the 
other  side  of  the  station  at  St.  Cloud,  where  the 
Empress  and  her  ladies  could  say  their  adieux  without 
the  crowd  looking  on.  The  last  words  the  Empress 
said  to  her  son  were,  "Louis,  fais  ton  devoir."  She  is 
made  the  Regent  during  the  absence  of  the  Emperor. 

joth  August. 

It  looks  now  as  if  there  might  be  war  all  over 
France.  As  it  is,  the  Prussians  are  near  Paris,  and 
the  French  are  trying  to  regain  the  ground  they  have 
lost.  The  news  we  get  is  very  contradictory.  Accord- 
ing to  the  French  official  reports  the  French  Army  has 
been  successful  all  the  time.  The  English  papers  prob- 
ably give  the  untarnished  truth,  unfavorable  as  it  may 
be  to  France.  Some  people  say  that  at  the  worst  there 
is  only  a  question  of  unimportant  skirmishes. 

We  are  well  out  of  Paris  and  safely  in  Dinard,  where 
Mr.  Moulton  is  building  a  new  house  (we  have  already 
two).  We  left  Petit  Val  rather  precipitately,  leaving 
everything  behind  us,  clothes  in  wardrobes  and  letters  in 
commodes.     We  shall  not  be  away  more  than  a  month. 

I  can  only  say  that  we  lead  the  most  peaceful  of  lives 
during  this  time  of  war.  I  will  not  tell  you  any  news, 
because  it  won't  be  news  when  you  read  it.  We  are  and 
have  been  all  the  time  fed  on  false  reports,  great  placards 

252 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pasted  up  everywhere  telling  of  the  French  victories, 
but  from  our  English  papers  we  know  the  contrary. 
It  is  pitiful  to  see  the  poor,  half-clad  peasants  being 
drilled  on  the  beach  with  sticks  in  their  hands  instead 
of  guns.  It  is  the  French  idea  of  keeping  up  the  spirits 
of  the  army. 

I  sang  in  the  cathedral  last  Sunday,  and  the  quite 
(the  money  taken),  they  said,  was  a  large  sum.  I  doubt 
it!  I  know  what  the  qiietes  are  here.  Anything  that 
can  rattle  in  the  bag  is  good.  Buttons  are  particularly 
popular,  as  no  one  can  see  what  you  put  in,  and  it  does 
not  matter. 

There  was  a  tremendous  storm  last  night,  and  many 
of  the  slates  of  the  new  villa  were  blown  off.  The  ser- 
vants who  sleep  there  thought  that  the  Germans  had 
come  at  last,  and  were  frightened  out  of  the  few  wits 
they  own. 

Madame  Gignoux,  our  neighbor  at  Petit  Val,  who 
is  living  in  her  other  chateau  in  Brittany,  sent  a  letter 
to  me  which  I  should  send  to  Helen  in  Berlin,  to  be  sent 
to  Paul,  who  is  in  Versailles,  to  be  sent  to  Mr.  Washburn, 
in  Paris,  who  is  to  give  it  to  Henry  at  Petit  Val.  Rather 
roundabout  way !  I  can't  tell  you  how  much  of  that  sort 
of  thing  I  am  constantly  doing  for  people  who  are  afraid 
of  doing  anything  for  themselves;  they  think  every  one 
is  a  spy  or  a  traitor. 

Paris,  March  14,  1871. 

Dear  Mama, — You  will  be  surprised  to  see  that  I 
am  in  Paris;  but  you  will  understand  why  when  I  tell 
you  that  I  received  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Moulton  to  this 
effect :  '  Tf  you  wish  to  go  to  Petit  Val  to  look  after  the 

253 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

things  you  left  there  when  you  went  to  Dinard  last 
August,  you  had  better  come  to  Paris  without  delay, 
as  the  trains  are  running  regularly  now."  The  trains 
may  have  been  running  regularly  (I  left  Dinard  the  next 
day),  but  they  were  certainly  not  running  on  time,  for 
we  missed  all  connections,  and  only  arrived  at  Rennes 
after  seven  o'clock,  too  late  to  catch  the  evening  train 
for  Paris.  The  fine  omnibus  at  the  station  made  me 
imagine  that  it  belonged  to  an  equally  fine  hotel,  but 
the  hotel  proved  to  be  anything  but  fine.  It  was  dread- 
fully dirty  and  shabby,  and  filled  to  overflowing.  It 
was  with  the  greatest  difficulty  I  was  able  to  secure  a 
room  for  myself.  My  grumbling  maid  had  to  content 
herself  with  the  sofa.  The  salle  d.  manger  was  thronged 
with  officers  clanking  their  swords  on  the  brick  floor 
and  all  talking  at  once.  I  passed  a  sleepless  night,  being 
kept  awake  by  the  loud  and  incessant  conversations 
in  the  corridor  and  the  continual  tramping  of  soldiers 
under  my  window.  We  started  for  Paris  the  next 
morning  at  eight  o'clock.  The  train  was  crowded  with 
people  who,  like  myself,  were  eager  to  return  home  after 
so  many  months  of  anxious  waiting.  In  all  the  stations 
through  which  we  passed  one  saw  nothing  but  soldiers, 
their  ragged  uniforms  hanging  on  their  emaciated  forms ; 
their  feet — which  had  been  frozen  in  January  (poor 
things!) — were  still  bandaged,  and  hardly  any  of  them 
possessed  shoes.  They  did  look,  indeed,  the  picture  of 
abject  dejection  and  misery. 

At  Le  Mans,  the  place  where  we  stopped  for  luncheon, 
the  soldiers  were  lying  about  on  the  brick  pavement 
of  the  station,  too  tired  and  worn  out  to  move,  and  pre- 
senting the  saddest  sight  it  has  ever  fallen  to  my  lot 

254 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

to  witness.  They  were  waiting  for  the  cattle  vans  to 
take  them  away.  In  these  they  would  be  obliged  to 
stand  until  they  reached  Paris  and  its  hospitals.  Every 
one  of  the  travelers  was  anxious  to  alleviate  their  misery 
in  some  way,  by  offering  them  cigars,  food,  and  money. 
My  heart  bled  for  the  poor  creatures,  and  I  gave  them 
all  I  had  in  my  purse,  and  my  luncheon  also.  They 
represented  the  debris  of  Faidherbe's  army,  which  of 
all  the  troops  had  seen  the  most  desperate  fighting 
during  the  war.  All  the  trains  we  passed  were  packed 
tight  with  soldiers,  herded  together  like  cattle,  patient 
misery  painted  on  their  pale,  tired  faces. 

Hungry  and  penniless  I  arrived  at  last  in  Paris,  where 
I  was  delighted  to  see  a  healthy,  normal-looking  person 
in  the  shape  of  my  brother-in-law,  Henry,  who  met  me 
at  the  station.  He  had  plenty  to  tell  me  of  his  experi- 
ences since  last  September.  He  had  been  living  at 
Petit  Val  throughout  the  whole  campaign,  and  was 
still  there  looking  after  our  interests,  faisant  la  navette 
between  Petit  Val,  Paris,  and  Versailles  at  his  will.  He 
had  free  passes  for  all  these  places.  On  my  arrival  at 
the  Rue  de  Courcelles  I  found  the  family  well,  Mrs. 
Moulton  knitting  as  usual.  Mademoiselle  Wissembourg 
napping,  and  Mr.  Moulton  reading  the  Journal  des 
Dehats  out  loud  in  his  peculiar  French. 

I  thought  of  the  "Brook,"  by  Tennyson:  "Men  may 
come  and  men  may  go,  but  I  go  on  for  ever."  The 
family  had  not  eaten  cats  and  dogs  during  the  siege  as, 
according  to  the  newspapers,  other  people  had  done. 

Mr.  Moulton  having  been  in  Paris  at  the  time  of  the 
Revolution  of  1848,  and  knowing  about  revolutions,  had 
had  the  forethought  to  lay  in  a  stock  of  provisions,  such 

255 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

as  ham,  biscuit,  rice,  etc.,  and  all  sorts  of  canned  things, 
which  he  deemed  would  be  sufficient  for  all  their  require- 
ments. They  had  even  given  dinner-parties  limited  to 
a  very  choice  few,  who  sometimes  brought  welcome 
additions  in  the  shape  of  other  canned  dehcacies. 

When  the  family  moved  from  Petit  Val  to  Paris  last 
September,  the  French  Government  had  given  them  per- 
mission to  keep  one  or  two  cows.  They  also  brought  a 
calf,  a  sheep,  and  some  chickens  with  them.  The  cows 
and  the  sheep  shared  the  stables  with  the  horses,  while 
the  chickens  were  let  loose  in  the  conservatory,  and 
were  expected  to  lay  enough  eggs  to  pay  for  their  board. 
The  gardener  had  cleverly  converted  the  conservatory 
into  a  sort  of  kitchen  garden,  and  had  planted  some 
useful  vegetables,  such  as  radishes,  carrots,  salad,  etc., 
so  you  see  the  family  took  good  care  that  it  should 
have  enough  to  eat,  and  mice  and  rats  only  appeared 
on  the  table  after  the  repasts. 


Paris,  March  i6,  1871. 

Dear  Mama, — This  has  been  a  very  fatiguing  day 
for  me,  so  you  will  only  receive  a  short  letter. 

Paul  ^  invited  Mrs.  Moulton  and  me  to  come  to  Ver- 
sailles, and  offered  us  a  cup  of  tea  as  an  inducement. 
You  know  Paul  is  Count  Bismarck's  private  secretary, 
having  been  with  him  and  the  German  sovereign  during 
the  entire  war.  He  is  still  at  Versailles,  but  expects  to 
leave  for  Berlin  one  of  these  first  days.  He  came  to 
fetch  us  at  the  station  with  the  fat  ponies  and  the  basket- 

*  Count  Hatzfeldt,  my  brother-in-law. 
256 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

wagon  (the  ponies  had  escaped  the  fate  of  other  fat 
ponies,  and  they  had  not  furnished  steaks  for  famished 
Parisians,  but  continued  to  trot  complacently  about,  as 
of  old).  Fortunately  they  were  not  too  fat  to  carry  us 
through  the  park  at  a  lively  pace,  and  land  us  at  Paul's 
palatial  residence.  It  seemed  strange  to  see  German 
officers,  in  their  tight-fitting  uniforms,  strolling  leisurely 
about  in  the  park,  where  before  I  had  only  seen  the 
rather  slovenly  pious-pious  on  holidays,  when  the  foun- 
tains played  by  day  and  the  fireworks  by  night. 

The  park  looked  enchanting  in  its  spring  toilette, 
and  made  me  think  of  the  last  time  I  was  here.  Could 
it  have  been  only  last  May?     It  seems  years  ago! 

Paul  had  invited  some  of  his  German  officer  friends 
to  take  tea  with  us.  Paul  had  been  with  the  King  of 
Prussia  and  Jules  Favre  and  Bismarck  at  Ferrieres,  where 
they  had  met,  he  said,  "with  no  other  result  than  to  see 
Jules  Favre  weep." 

Paul  had  been  at  Versailles  when  the  King  was  pro- 
claimed Emperor  in  the  salle  de  glaces  —  the  greatest 
emotion  he  had  ever  experienced,  he  said.  He  had  also 
been  witness  of  the  signing  of  the  armistice.  The  pen 
with  which  it  was  signed  had  been  given  him  as  a 
souvenir,  and  it  was  lying  on  his  table. 

Paul  thought  the  Emperor  Napoleon  more  to  be  pitied 
than  blamed.  He  had  gone  into  this  war  without  really 
knowing  the  true  state  of  things.  He  was  made  to  be- 
lieve that  there  were  four  hundred  thousand  men  ready 
to  take  the  field,  when  in  reality  there  were  only  half 
that  number,  and  those  certainly  not  fit  to  be  pitted 
against  the  Germans,  who  had  been  provided  with  better 
and  newer  maps  than  the  French,  and  knew  France  and 

257 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

its  army  more  thoroughly  than  the  French  themselves. 
We  could  have  talked  on  this  subject  for  hours  had  not 
the  fat  ponies  come  to  take  us  to  the  station,  where  we 
bade  farewell  to  Paul  and  the  officers,  and  returned  to 
Paris  for  the  modest  repast  which  we  dignified  by  the 
name  of  dinner. 

March  17th. 

Dear  Mama, — Such  a  funny  thing  happened  to-day. 

I  don't  know  whether  I  told  you  of  some  Americans, 

called  the  O s,  I  met  in  Dinar d  fresh  from  America 

{via  Southarnpton) .  When  I  bade  them  good-by,  I  said, 
in  an  offhand  way,  "When  you  come  to  Paris  you  must 
come  and  see  me." 

" Oh !  that  will  be  nice,"  gushingly  replied  Mrs.  O . 

"Where    do    you    live?     (Every   one    of    the    O s' 

phrases  commenced  with  "Oh!") 

"I  live  in  the  Rue  de  Courcelles,"  I  answered. 

"Oh!  Roue  de  Carrousel,"  she  repeated.  "What 
number?" 

"Rue  de  Courcelles,"  I  replied,  correctingly ;  "twenty- 
seven." 

Mrs.  0 's  next  question  was,  "Oh!    have  you  a 

flat?" 

"A  flat!!  No,"  I  said,  "we  have  a  hotel.  Every  one 
knows  our  hotel  in  the  Rue  de  Courcelles." 

I  then  proceeded  to  forget  the  O s  and  everything 

concerning  them.  This  morning,  when  we  were  at 
luncheon,  the  concierge  came  rushing  in,  the  tassels  on 
his  calotte  bristling  with  agitation. 

"Madame,"  he  gasped,  "there  is  a  fiacre  full  of  people 
with  a  lot  of  trunks  asking  to  come  in  to  Madame.     I 

258 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

can't  understand  what  they  want."     His  emotion  choked 
him. 

We  all  said  in  unison :  "Ask  for  their  cards.  Who  can 
they  be?" 

The  concierge  came  back  with  Mr,  O — ■ — 's  card. 

I  recollected  my  impulsive  invitation  and  thought  it 
very  polite  of  them  to  be  so  empresses.     I  went  into  the 

salon,    followed    by    Mademoiselle    W ,   where    we 

found  Mr.  O seated  at  his  ease  in  a  fauteuil,  his  feet 

reposing  on  the  white-bear  rug. 

I  apologized  for  having  kept  him  waiting,  but  ex- 
plained that  we  had  been  at  luncheon. 

He  (complacently),  "Oh,  that's  all  right;  we  have 
just  arrived  in  Paris  and  we  came  straight  to  you." 

I  felt  overwhelmed  at  such  a  keen  appreciation  of  my 
politeness. 

"How  is  Mrs.  O ?"  I  said. 

He  answered  with  the  inevitable  "Oh!"  "Oh!  she's 
all  right.     She's  outside  in  the  cab." 

"Indeed!"  I  said,  and  wondered  why  she  had  not 
sent  her  card  in  with  his,  though  I  supposed  she  was 
waiting  to  be  asked  to  come  in,  if  he  found  me  at  home. 

"We  thought  before  trying  anywhere  else  we  would 
see  if  you  could  take  us  in." 

This  staggered  me  considerably.  I  tried  to  take  hint 
"  in  "  as  he  stood  before  me  with  traveling  cap  and  umbrella. 

"Are  you  full?"  he  went  on.  Mademoiselle  and  I 
wondered  if  we  showed  signs  of  a  too  copious  luncheon. 

"Why,  what  a  nice  place  you  have  here!"  looking 
about.  "Well,"  he  continued,  nothing  daunted,  "you 
see,  we  only  want  one  bedroom,  for  us,  with  a  room  next 
for  baby,  and  one  not  too  far  off  for  Arthur." 

259 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

What    was    he    driving    at?     Mademoiselle    W— 


thought  he  was  either  a  spy  or  a  burglar  who  had  come 
to  take  a  survey  of  the  hotel.  Her  bracelets  and  bunch 
of  keys  rattled  ominously  as  the  thought  of  burglars 
entered  her  brain. 

He,  familiarly  settling  himself  down  for  a  chat,  "Do 
you  think  you  could  pick  up  a  maid  for  Mrs.  O ?" 

Mademoiselle  and  I  exchanged  a  glance  of  intelligent 
indulgence  and  thought:  All  our  friends  wanted,  prob- 
ably, was  a  few  addresses  before  settling  themselves  in 
Paris.  How  stupid  of  us  not  to  have  thought  of  this 
sooner!  I  hastened  to  promise  all  sorts  of  names  and 
addresses  of  tradespeople,  thinking  he  would  take  his 
departure. 

Not  he!  On  the  contrary,  he  tucked  his  umbrella 
more  firmly  under  his  arm,  and  turned  to  Mademoiselle 

W :    "Have  you  got   a  register?"    taking  her,  no 

doubt,  for  la  dame  du  comptoir. 

Mademoiselle  draped  herself  in  her  most  Rachel-like 
attitude  and  glanced  knowingly  at  the  hot-air  flue  which 
she  had  been  told  was  a  register. 

"We  have,"  she  answered  curtly,  wondering  if  this 
extraordinary  creature  could  be  suffering  from  cold  on 
this  warm  spring  day. 

"I  had  better  write  my  name  down!"  This  was  too 
much !  Mademoiselle  thought  now  that  he  was  not  only 
a  burglar,  but  a  lunatic, 

"I  think,"  I  said,  "I  can  give  you  the  address  of  a  very 
nice  maid,"  trying  to  lead  him  back  into  the  paths  we 
had  trodden  before. 

"Oh!  that'll  be  all  right.  You  have  perhaps  a  maid 
in  the  house?" 

260 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Certainly  we  have,"  answered  Mademoiselle  with 
asperity,  giving  her  velvet  bow  an  agitated  pat. 

"Money  is  no  object,"  continued  he;  "I'm  always 
willing  to  pay  what  one  asks."  Mademoiselle  now 
thought  he  was  drunk  and  was  for  sending  for  the 
servants. 

I  asked  him,  "How  is  the  baby?" 

"Oh!  baby's  all  right.  The  nurse  has  been  a  little 
upset  by  the  journey.  You  might  give  us  the  address 
of  your  doctor." 

"Yes,  yes."  I  gave  him  the  name  instantly,  hoping 
he  would  go. 

"We  don't  need  him  right  off;  he  can  come  here 
later,  and  you  can  talk  to  him  yourself.  Maria  does  not 
speak  French." 

Mademoiselle  gasped  for  breath,  while  he  looked  about 
him  approvingly. 

"Real  nice  house  you  have,  Madame,  not  very  cen- 
tral, but  we  don't  mind  being  in  a  quiet  part  of  Paris, 
as  Maria  wants  to  learn  French";  and  seeing  the  con- 
servatory, he  remarked:  "Arthur  can  play  in  there. 
That'll  do  splendidly."  After  an  awkward  pause: 
"Well,  if  the  rooms  are  ready,  we  can  come  right  in. 
Maria  will  be  wondering  why  I  have  been  so  long." 
I  also  wondered  why  he  had  been  so  long! 

To  cap  the  climax,  he  handed  Mademoiselle  a  five- 
franc  piece,  saying:  "I  guess  this  will  cover  the  cab. 
The  coachman  can  keep  the  change." 

A  light  dawned  on  me!  He  thought  this  was  a 
hotel! 

I  said,  "When  you  get  settled  in  your  hotel  I  will  come 
and  see  you." 

18  261 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"What !  Can't  you  take  us  in?  We  counted  on  com- 
ing to  your  hotel." 

I  laughed  outright.  Mademoiselle  raised  what  she 
is  pleased  to  call  her  eyebrows  and  shrugged  her  shoul- 
ders. 

I  explained  to  my  guest  his  mistake.  Instead  of  say- 
ing, "Oh!  that's  all  right,"  he  said,  "Well,  I'll  be 
blessed,"  and  without  wasting  any  more  time  than  for  a 
hasty  good-by  he  marched  out  to  join  the  tired  Maria, 
the  baby,  the  nurse,  and  Arthur.  We  watched  them  as 
they  drove  off,  all  gazing  out  of  the  window  at  the 
hotel  which  was  not  a  hotel. 

May  Allah  protect  them! 

March  igth. 

Dear  Mother, — The  day  before  yesterday  Henry 
and  I  decided  to  go  to  Petit  Val.  I  looked  forward 
with  delight  to  seeing  my  beautiful  home  again.  Mrs. 
Moulton  promised  to  drive  out  and  bring  me  back  to 
Paris  late  in  the  afternoon.  We  drove  to  the  Gare  de 
la  Bastille  and  took  our  tickets  for  La  Varenne.  The 
station  was  so  horribly  dirty,  it  looked  as  if  it  had  not 
been  swept  or  cleaned  since  the  commencement  of  the 
war,  and  as  for  the  first-class  compartment  v/e  entered 
I  really  hesitated  to  sit  down  on  the  shabby  and  di- 
lapidated cushions. 

We  traveled  very  slowly,  and  stopped  at  every  sta- 
tion mentioned  in  the  time-table.  Although  these  were 
devoid  of  travelers,  the  conductor  opened  the  doors  of 
all  the  carriages,  and  after  waiting  the  allotted  time 
shouted  mechanically,  "En  voiture,"  though  there  was 
absolutely  no  one  to  get  in. 

262 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  thought  we  never  would  arrive! 

All  the  little  towns,  once  so  thrifty  and  prosperous, 
are  now  hardly  more  than  ruins.  It  is  no  wonder  that 
this  part  of  the  country  (yincennes,  St.  Maur,  Chen- 
vieres,  etc.)  is  so  destroyed,  because  it  was  all  about 
here  that  the  French,  shut  up  in  Paris,  had  made  the 
most  frequent  sorties.     Everything  was  terribly  changed. 

Now  my  beautiful  bridge  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 
There  is  one  arch  half  in  water  and  debris  of  stone  and 
mortar  on  the  shore. 

Henry  and  I,  having  no  alternative,  were  obliged  to 
walk  from  the  station  to  the  pontoon  bridge,  made, 
Henry  said,  in  one  night.  I  don't  know  about  that; 
but  what  I  do  know  is  that  the  French  blew  up  my 
bridge  in  one  night.  Then  we  made  the  whole  distance 
to  Petit  Val  on  foot,  passing  by  the  chateaux  of  Ormes- 
son,  Chenvieres,  Grand  Val,  and  Montalon. 

All  the  chateaux  we  passed  are  utterly  abandoned, 
some  quite  in  ruins;  one  can  see,  for  instance,  right 
through  beautiful  Grand  Val,  bereft  of  windows  and 
doors. 

But  worse  was  awaiting  me!  My  heart  sank  within 
me  when  we  came  in  sight  of  the  potager,  the  glory  of 
Petit  Val,  so  renowned  in  its  day  for  its  fruits  and  vege- 
tables. Now  it  is  frightful  to  see!  Its  walls  torn 
asunder;  cannon  put  in  its  crenelated  sides,  dilapidated 
and  destroyed;  the  garden  filled  with  rubbish  of  all 
description.  But,  as  though  nature  were  protesting 
against  all  this  disorder  and  neglect,  the  cherry- trees 
were  placidly  blossoming;  the  almond-trees,  with  their 
delicate  pink  flowers,  filled  the  air  with  perfume:  everv- 
thing,  in  short,  doing  its  part  in  spite  of  war  and  blood- 

263 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

shed.  Your  heart  would  ache  if  you  could  see  the 
place  as  it  is  now.  The  porter's  lodge  is  completely- 
gutted,  windowless  and  doorless,  open  to  wind  and 
weather. 

It  seems  strange  to  see  a  sentry-box  stationed  at  the 
entrance  of  the  park  and  a  sentinel  pacing  to  and 
fro.  Henry  gave  the  password,  and  we  walked  up  the 
avenue  toward  the  chateau.  I  will  not  weary  you  by 
trying  to  depict  my  feelings,  but  will  leave  you  to 
imagine  what  they  must  have  been.  I  looked  in  vain 
for  the  beautiful  Lebanon  cedar  which,  you  remember, 
stood  where  my  nightingale  used  to  sing,  on  the  broad 
lawn.  Henry  said  that  it  had  been  the  first  tree  that 
the  Germans  had  cut  down,  and  it  had  been  lying  there 
on  the  lawn  just  as  it  fell,  where  the  soldiers  could  con- 
veniently cut  their  fuel.  Henry  called  my  attention 
to  a  white  flag  flying  on  the  chateau,  which,  at  Paul's 
request.  Count  Bismarck  had  ordered  to  be  put  there. 

Henry  said  it  signified  in  military  language  that  only 
staff  officers  were  to  occupy  the  chateau,  and  that  no 
imnecessary  damage  should  be  done  "if  we  are  quiet." 
Did  Bismarck  think  we  were  likely  to  be  unruly  and  go 
about  shooting  people?  The  one  thing  in  the  world  we 
wanted  was  to  be  quiet.  The  flag  also  signified  that 
the  chateau  should  be  protected.  Henry  had  once 
complained  to  Bismarck  of  the  damage  done  by  the 
German  soldiers  at  Petit  Val,  and  Bismarck  had  re- 
plied, "A  la  guerre  comme  a  la  guerre,"  adding,  "The 
German  Government  will  hold  itself  responsible  for 
private  losses,  with  the  exception  of  those  which  are 
consequences  of  a  state  of  war  .  .  .  there  is  always  a 
certain  amount  of  unavoidable  destruction." 

264 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Unavoidable  destruction!"  cried  Henry;  "this  can 
cover  a  multitude  of  sins." 

"The  exigencies  of  war,  if  you  like  that  better,"  re- 
joined Bismarck. 

Paul  Hatzfeldt  wrote  to  Helen  last  September  that 
the  King  of  Prussia  had  promised  to  put  Petit  Val  under 
special  protection.  He  even  wished  to  go  there  himself; 
but  Paul  thought  Petit  Val  looked  so  spoiled  that  he  was 
glad  the  King  did  not  go.  If  it  was  spoiled  in  September 
last,  imagine  what  it  must  have  been  six  months  later, 
with  six  months  of  soldiers  to  spoil  it! 

When  we  arrived  at  the  chateau  itself  the  officers, 
who  had  evidently  just  been  lunching,  came  out  to  meet 
us,  wondering,  apparently,  who  this  courageous  lady 
(poor  trembling  me!)  could  possibly  be.  Henry  knew 
their  names,  and  presented  them  all  to  me ;  they  clanked 
their  heels  together  and  made  the  most  perfect  of 
military  salutes. 

The  commanding  officer  in  charge  of  Petit  Val 
is  Count  Arco,  a  major  of  a  Bavarian  regiment.  I 
hastened  to  explain  my  presence  among  them,  saying 
that  I  wished  to  collect  the  various  things  I  had  left 
in  the  chateau  when  I  went  away  last  August,  and  I 
had  taken  advantage  of  the  first  occasion  which  offered 
itself  of  coming  here. 

Count  Arco  held  a  short  conversation  with  Henry, 
who  told  him  I  would  like  to  go  to  my  apartment.  "Do 
not  trouble  to  have  anything  disarranged  for  me,"  I 
said,  "as  I  shall  only  be  here  for  a  short  time.  My 
mother-in-law  is  driving  out  later  in  the  afternoon  to 
take  me  back  to  Paris." 

While  we  were  talking  Count  Arco  informed  me  that 

26s 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

there  were  twenty-six  officers  in  the  chateau  itself  and 
one  hundred  and  twenty  soldiers  quartered  round  in 
the  different  pavilions,  farm-houses,  ateliers,  and — I  think 
he  said — -about  fifty  in  the  orangerie. 

Presently  an  orderly  appeared  and  conducted  me  to 
my  rooms,  which  had  evidently  been  hurriedly  evacuated, 
but  they  looked  quite  nice  and  clean.  I  was  agreeably 
surprised  to  find  my  writing-desk  and  commodes  pretty 
nearly  as  I  remembered  to  have  left  them.  At  any 
rate,  letters,  trinkets,  and  so  forth  seemed  undisturbed. 
I  wish  I  could  say  the  same  for  my  wearing  apparel, 
which  had  considerably  diminished  since  my  departure. 
Waists  without  their  skirts,  and  skirts  without  their 
waists,  and  I  found  various  female  articles  unknown 
to  me;  but  never  mind!     Honi  soit  qui  mal  y  pense! 

It  was  said  in  France  that  no  German  could  resist 
a  clock,  and  that  the  dearth  of  clocks  after  the  war  is 
quite  noticeable.  To  prove  the  contrary,  and  to  ap- 
plaud the  officers  who  had  lived  in  Petit  Val  (and  there 
had  been  many  hundreds  of  them) ,  my  clock  was  ticking 
away  as  of  old  on  my  mantelpiece. 

Having  finished  packing  the  things  to  take  with  me, 
I  wished  to  have  a  look  at  protected  Petit  Val. 

The  "unavoidable  destruction"  had  been  interpreted 
in  a  very  liberal  sense. 

The  salon  was  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten.  The 
mirrors  which  paneled  the  whole  of  the  east  wall  were 
broken,  as  if  stones  had  been  thrown  at  them;  every 
picture  had  been  pierced  by  bayonets.  The  beautiful 
portrait  of  the  Marquis  de  Marigny  (the  former  owner 
of  Petit  Val  and  brother  of  Madame  de  Pompadour)  had 
vanished.     Instead  of  the  Aubusson  furniture  we  had 

266 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

left,  which,  I  suppose,  has  been  transferred  to  other 
homes,  I  found  two  pianos,  one  grand  (not  ours),  two 
bilHard -tables  (not  ours),  some  iron  tables,  and  some 
very  hard  iron  chairs  (certainly  not  ours),  annexed,  I 
should  say,  from  a  neighboring  cafe. 

The  library,  formerly  containing  such  rare  and  valu- 
able books,  is  now  a  bedroom — the  shelves  half  empty, 
the  books  scattered  about,  some  of  them  piled  up  in  a 
corner  and  used  as  a  table.  Henry  said  that,  when  any 
one  wanted  to  light  a  fire  or  a  pipe,  they  simply  tore  a 
page  out  of  a  book.  What  did  they  care?  Was  it  not 
one  of  the  "exigencies  of  war"  ?  The  frames  and  glasses 
of  the  engravings  were  broken ;  but,  fortunately,  all  the 
engravings  were  not  ruined. 

You  remember  Mrs.  Moulton's  boudoir,  where  all  was 
so  dainty  and  complete?  The  soldiers  had  converted  it 
into  a  kitchen,  and  at  the  moment  we  were  there  they 
were  cooking  some  very  smelly  cabbage  a  la  tedesco. 

My  pretty  pavilion!     If  you  could  have  seen  it! 

Evidently  the  all-powerful  flag  had  not  protected  this, 
for  it  was  without  doors,  windows,  and  parquets.  The 
only  thing  in  it  was  a  dear  little  calf  munching  his  last 
meal  before  being  killed.  To  make  it  look  more  like 
a  slaughter-house,  there  were  haunches  of  beef  hanging 
on  the  Louis  XV.  appliques,  which  had  been  left  on  the 
walls  to  serve  as  nails.  Fresh  blood  was  dropping  from 
them  on  the  sacks  of  potatoes  underneath. 

The  officers  had  coffee  served  under  the  charmillc. 

I  was  glad  to  get  something  to  sustain  my  sinking 
heart.  Henry  and  I  took  a  sad  walk  through  the  park. 
The  once  beautifully  kept  lawn  is  now  like  a  ploughed 
field,  full  of  ruts  and  stones. 

267 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  lake  was  shining  in  the  sun,  but  on  it  there  were 
no  boats.  The  grotto  over  which  used  to  trickle  a  little 
waterfall  was  completely  dry,  showing  the  ugly  stucco 
false  rocks.  It  seemed  dismal  and  forlorn.  I  won- 
dered how  I  ever  could  have  thought  it  beautiful! 
The  riviere  was  without  its  pretty  rustic  bridge;  the 
picturesque  pavilions  were  filled  with  soldiers;  some 
were  sitting  on  the  porches  mending  their  clothes. 

Five  o'clock  came  before  we  realized  how  late  it  was. 
We  expected  the  carriage  every  moment;  but  there  was 
no  sign  of  it,  though  we  scanned  the  length  of  the  long 
avenue  with  the  Count's  field-glasses. 

Why  did  Mrs.  Moulton  not  come?  Something  must 
have  happened!  But  what?  Henry  and  I  were  seri- 
ously alarmed.  Noticing  our  looks  of  dismay,  Count 
Arco  asked  me  if  I  was  anxious.  I  replied  that  I  natu- 
rally was  anxious,  because  if  my  mother-in-law  could 
not  come  or  send  the  carriage  she  certainly  would  have 
telegraphed.  He  then  inquired  if  I  wished  to  send  a 
telegram.  No  sooner  had  I  said  "yes"  than  an  orderly 
appeared  on  horseback  to  take  the  telegram  to  the 
station.  He  returned,  while  we  still  stood  in  the  avenue 
looking  for  the  longed-for  carriage,  with  the  astounding 
news  that  all  the  telegraph  wires  were  cut. 

To  take  the  train  was  our  next  idea,  and  the  wonder- 
ing orderly  was  again  sent  back  to  find  out  when  the 
next  train  would  start.  This  time  he  returned  with  still 
more  astounding  news. 

There  were  no  trains  at  all! 

Count  Arco  seemed  to  be  most  agitated,  and  I  could  see, 
by  the  expression  of  the  faces  of  the  other  officers,  that 
they  were  more  disturbed  than  they  wanted  us  to  notice. 

268 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

What  should  I  do?  Everything  was  in  ruins  in  the 
village.  There  was  not  even  an  auberge  of  the  smallest 
dimensions.  All  the  neighboring  chateaux  were  aban- 
doned. Of  whom  could  I  ask  hospitality  ?  Count  Arco, 
seeing  my  embarrassment,  proposed  my  staying  the 
night  at  Petit  Val.  Henry's  living  there  made  it  easier 
for  me.  So  I  accepted  his  offer;  besides,  there  was  no 
choice.  The  soldiers  arranged  my  room  according  to 
their  ideas  of  a  lady's  requirements,  which  included  a 
boot-jack,  ash-trays,  beer-mugs,  etc.  Their  intentions 
were  of  the  best. 

At  seven  o'clock  Henry  and  I  dined  with  the  officers. 
It  seemed  strange  to  me  to  be  presiding  at  my  own 
table  surrounded  by  German  officers.  Count  Arco  being 
my   vis-h-vis. 

Do  you  want  to  know  what  we  had  for  dinner? 
Bean  soup,  brought  from  Germany.  Sausages  and 
and  cabbage,  put  up  in  Germany.  Coffee  and  zwie- 
backs, I  suppose  also  from  Germany. 

The  evening  passed  quickly,  and  I  must  admit  very 
pleasantly.  Any  one  who  had  pretensions  to  music 
played  or  sang.  Henry  performed  some  of  his  com- 
positions; one  officer  did  some  card  tricks.  They  all 
had  an  anecdote  of  their  experience  from  the  past  months, 
which  they  told  with  great  relish.  Henry  whispered  to 
Count  Arco:  "My  sister-in-law  sings.  Why  don't  you 
ask  her  for  a  song?"     I  could  have  pinched  him! 

Although  I  was  very  tired  and  did  not  feel  like  it,  I 
reflected  that  almost  anything  was  preferable  to  being 
begged  and  teased.  And,  after  all,  why  not  be  as  amiable 
as  my  companions,  who  had  done  their  best  to  amuse  me? 

I  seated  myself  at  the  piano  and  commenced  with  one 

269 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

of  Schumann's  songs,  and  then  I  sang  "Ma  Mere  etait 
Bohemienne,"  of  Masse,  which  had  a  great  success,  and 
at  the  refrain,  "Et  moi!  j'ai  I'ame  triste,"  there  was 
not  a  dry  eye  in  the  little  circle.  Graf  Waldersee,  one 
of  the  oldest  warriors,  wept  like  an  infant  while  I  was 
singing,  and  coming  up  to  me,  after  blowing  his  nose, 
said,  in  his  delightfully  broken  English,  "You  zing  like 
an  angle  [I  hope  he  meant  angel].  It  is  as  if  ze  paradise 
vas  opened  to  us."  Then  he  retired  in  a  corner  and 
wiped  his  eyes.  I  sang  "Ein  Jungling  liebt  ein  Mad- 
chen,"  of  Schumann,  and  when  I  came  to  the  line,  "Und 
wem  das  just  passieret,  dem  bricht  das  Herz  entzwei," 
I  heard  a  mournful  sigh.  It  came  from  the  Benjamin 
of  the  flock,  a  very  young  officer,  who  sat  with  his  hands 
over  his  face  sobbing  audibly.  What  chord  had  I 
struck?     Was  his  the  heart  that  was  breaking  entzwei? 

1  had  sung  to  many  people,  but  I  think  I  never  sang 
to  a  more  appreciative  audience  than  this  one. 

Henry  accompanied  me  in  "Beware!"  Their  en- 
thusiasm knew  no  bounds.  They  all  gathered  around 
me,  eager  to  thank  me  for  the  unexpected  pleasure.  I 
really  think  they  meant  what  they  said. 

When  I  returned  to  my  room  I  looked  out  of  my 
window  and  saw  the  sentinel  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the 
moonlight.  I  realized  for  the  first  time  that  the  chateau 
was  protected! 

I  mourned  the  beautiful  and  stately  Lebanon  cedar! 

March  i8th. 

It  seemed  so  strange  to  wake  up  and  find  myself  in 
my  room.    An  orderly  brought  me  a  very  neatly  arranged 

270 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

tray,  with  tea  and  buttered  toast  and  a  note  from  Henry 
announcing  the  terrible  news  that  Paris  was  under  arms 
— a  revolution  {rien  que  go)  had  broken  out,  and  all  ap- 
proaches to  the  city  were  barricaded.  This  was  news 
indeed!  I  understood  now  why  no  carriage  came  last 
night,  why  trains  were  stopped,  why  telegraph  wires  were 
cut,  and  why  no  mother-in-law  appeared. 

Henry  was  waiting  to  communicate  with  me  as  soon 
as  I  was  out  of  my  room.  Indeed,  a  more  stranded 
mortal  than  I  was  could  hardly  be  imagined !  However, 
there  seemed  nothing  for  me  to  do  but  to  await  events. 

The  officers  met  us  in  the  salon,  and  we  discussed 
the  situation  and  different  possibilities,  but  without  any 
practical  result. 

Every  one  was  much  excited  about  the  news.  The 
officers  pretended  not  to  know  more  than  we  did;  per- 
haps what  they  did  know  they  did  not  care  to  tell. 
We  saw  messengers  flying  in  all  directions,  papers  handed 
about,  more  messengers  galloping  down  the  avenue, 
agitation  written  on  the  faces  around  us.  All  I  knew 
was  that  there  was  a  revolution  in  Paris  and  I  was  here. 

Going  out  to  the  stables,  we  found  the  soldiers  groom- 
ing their  horses  unconcernedly.  From  there  we  went 
to  the  orangerie,  which  presented  a  queer  sight.  The 
soldiers,  of  whom  there  must  have  been  sixty,  had  ar- 
ranged their  beds  all  along  the  walls  on  both  sides,  and 
to  separate  them  one  from  another  had  placed  a  tub 
with  its  orange-tree.  The  aviary  had  been  converted 
into  a  drying-ground  for  their  lingerie;  they  had  sus- 
pended ropes  from  side  to  side,  and  thereon  hung  their 
week's  wash  amid  all  its  "unavoidable  destruction." 
Henry  told  me  that  when  the  Germans  first  came  to 

271 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Petit  Val  they  begged  old  Perault  (the  butler)  to  hand 
them  the  key  of  the  wine-cellar,  and  on  his  refusing  they 
had  tied  the  old  man  to  a  tree  in  the  park,  and  left  him 
there  the  whole  of  one  cold  night  to  consider  the  situa- 
tion. Needless  to  say,  the  next  day  the  Germans  had 
the  key.  After  they  had  taken  all  the  best  Chateau- 
Lafitte  and  all  the  rare  wines  Mr.  Moulton  had  bought 
during  the  Revolution  of  1848,  they  emptied  the  casks 
containing  the  Petit  Bleu,  made  on  the  estate!  The  re- 
sult was  disastrous,  and  could  Mr.  Moulton  have  only 
seen  the  poor  creatures  doubled  up  with  torture  he 
would  have  felt  himself  amply  revenged. 

We  ascended  the  hill  behind  the  chateau  to  the  high 
terrace,  from  where  one  can  see  Paris.  We  saw  no 
smoke,  therefore  Paris  was  not  burning.  But  what  was 
happening  there?  We  returned  to  breakfast,  where 
the  military  band  was  playing  on  the  lawn  (a  super- 
fluous luxury,  I  thought,  but  I  did  not  realize  that  so 
trivial  a  thing  as  a  revolution  could  not  interfere  with 
military  order) .  We  were  treated  to  the  eternal  sausage 
and  something  they  called  beefsteak;  it  might  as  well 
have  been  called  "supreme  de  donkey,"  it  was  so 
tough.  However,  the  others  ate  it  with  iron  jaws  and 
without  a  pang.  Count  Arco  suggested  I  should  take 
a  drive,  en  attendant  les  evenements,  and  see  the  neigh- 
borhood. I  acquiesced,  thinking  anything  in  the  way 
of  distraction  would  be  a  welcome  relief.  Imagine  my 
feelings  when  I  saw  our  caleche,  a  mere  ghost  of  its 
former  self,  dragged  by  four  artillery  horses  and  pos- 
tilioned  by  two  heavy  dragoons. 

"The  exigencies  of  war"  had  obliged  the  soldiers  to 
remove  the  leather,  the  carpet,  the  cushions,  and  all 

272 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

the  cloth ;  only  the  iron  and  wood  remained  to  show  that 
once  this  had  been  a  carriage. 

This  ancient  relic  drew  up  with  a  thump  on  what 
had  been  flower-beds,  and  the  Coimt  opened  the  door 
for  me  to  enter,  but  on  observing  my  look  of  dismay 
when  I  saw  the  hard,  cushionless  seats,  despatched  an 
officer  to  try  to  find  a  cushion  for  me.  Apparently, 
however,  cushions  were  souvenirs  our  friends  had  for- 
gotten to  bring  with  them  from  other  residences.  Judg- 
ing from  the  time  we  waited,  the  officer  must  have  ran- 
sacked the  whole  house,  but  had  found  nothing  better 
than  a  couple  of  bed-pillows,  with  which  he  appeared, 
carrying  one  under  each  arm,  to  the  great  amusement 
of  the  beholders.  I  mounted  this  grotesque  equipage, 
the  Count  and  Henry  following,  and  sat  enthroned  on 
my  pillows  of  state. 

We  asked,  before  starting,  if  there  was  any  news  from 
Paris,  and  receiving  an  answer  in  the  negative,  we  drove 
off.  Up  hills,  over  lawns  and  flower-beds,  zigzagging 
through  vineyards  and  gardens,  never  by  any  chance  keep- 
ing to  the  proper  road,  we  made  the  tour  of  the  environs. 

To  give  you  an  idea  how  completely  the  chateaux  had 
been  ransacked,  I  can  tell  you  that  I  picked  up  about 
a  yard  and  a  half  of  handsome  Brussels  lace  in  the  court- 
yard of  the  chateau  of  Sucy.  We  drove  hastily  through 
the  adjoining  estate  of  Grand  Val,  which  looked  even 
more  deplorable  than  Sucy.  I  began  to  wonder  if  the 
artillery  horses  and  the  carcass  of  the  vehicle  in  which 
we  sat  would  be  capable  of  carrying  me  to  Paris,  or  at 
least  within  walking  distance  of  it.  You  see,  I  was 
beginning  to  get  desperate.  Here  was  I,  with  the  day 
almost  over,  without  any  apparent  prospect  of  getting 

273 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

away.  But,  as  the  Psalmist  puts  it,  "Sorrow  endureth 
for  a  night,  but  joy  cometh  in  the  morning."  My  joy 
came  late  in  the  afternoon,  on  returning  to  Petit  Val, 
where  I  found  the  landeau  of  the  American  Legation, 
my  mother-in-law,  and  (hobnobbing  with  the  German 
officers)  the  American  Minister  himself,  the  popular  and 
omnipotent  Mr.  Washburn. 

They  were  overjoyed  to  see  me,  as  they  had  been  as 
anxious  as  I  had  been,  having  tried  every  means  in  their 
power  to  reach  me.  To  telegraph  was  impossible;  to 
send  a  groom  on  horseback  equally  so.  Finally,  as  a  last 
resource,  they  had  written  to  Mr.  Washburn  to  see  if 
he  could  not  solve  the  difficult  question,  which  he  did 
by  driving  out  himself  with  Mrs.  Moulton  to  fetch  me. 

As  soon  as  the  horses  were  sufficiently  rested  (my 
hosts  and  I  being  profuse  in  our  mutual  thanks),  we 
started  for  Paris,  passing  through  Alfort,  Charenton, 
and  many  villages,  all  more  or  less  in  ruins.  There  were 
plenty  of  people  lounging  about  in  the  streets.  We 
reached  Vincennes  without  difficulty;  but  thenceforth 
our  troubles  commenced  in  earnest. 

Mr.  Washburn  thought  it  more  prudent  to  close  the 
carriage,  cautioning  the  coachman  to  drive  slower.  We 
were  stopped  at  every  moment  by  soldiers  and  barri- 
cades; then  Mr.  Washburn  would  show  his  card  and 
his  laissez  passer,  after  which  we  were  allowed  to  pass 
on,  until  we  came  to  more  soldiers  and  more  barricades. 
Omnibuses  turned  over,  paving-stones  piled  up,  barrels, 
ladders,  ropes  stretched  across  the  streets,  anything  to 
stop  the  circulation.  Poor  Mr.  Washburn  was  tired 
out  popping  his  head  first  out  of  one  window  then  out 
of  the  other,  with  his  card  in  his  hand. 

274 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  men  who  accosted  us  were  not  discourteous,  but 
spoke  quite  decidedly,  as  if  they  did  not  expect  to  be 
contradicted.  We  did  not  care  to  contradict  them, 
either. 

"We  know  you,  Monsieur,  by  reputation,  and  we 
know  that  you  are  well  disposed  toward  France.  How 
do  you  feel  toward  la  Commune?" 

Mr.  Washburn  hesitating  a  moment,  the  man  added, 
cynically,  "Perhaps  you  would  like  to  add  a  stone  to 
our  barricades."  He  made  as  if  he  would  open  the  door 
of  the  carriage;  but  Mr.  Washburn  answered,  holding 
back  the  door,  "I  take  it  for  granted.  Monsieur,  that  I 
have  your  permission  to  drive  on,  as  I  have  something 
very  important  to  attend  to  at  my  Legation,"  and 
gave  the  man  a  defiant  look,  which  rather  frightened  him, 
and  we  drove  through  the  crowd.  All  along  the  Rue 
de  Rivoli  we  saw  the  soldiers  massing  together  in  groups, 
La  Garde  nationale  (Mr.  Washburn  said  they  so  called 
themselves  since  yesterday),  a  miserable-looking  set  of 
men,  talking  very  loud  and  flourishing  their  guns  as  if 
they  were  walking-sticks. 

In  passing  the  Rue  Castiglione  we  saw  it  was  full  of 
soldiers,  and  looking  toward  the  Place  de  la  Concorde 
we  saw  more  barricades  there. 

This  was  a  sight  to  behold!  The  space  around  the 
Column  was  filled  with  paving-stones  and  all  sorts  of 
debris  (strange  to  say,  my  eyes  saw  more  brooms  than 
anything  else) ;  and  cannon  pointing  everywhere.  A 
very  impertinent,  common-looking  voyou  said,  on  looking 
at  Mr.  Washburn's  card,  "Vous  etes  tous  tres  chic  .  .  . 
mais  vous  ne  passerez  pas,  tout  de  meme." 

We  shook  in  our  shoes. 

275 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

But  Mr.  Washburn,  equal  to  the  occasion,  said  some- 
thing which  had  the  desired  effect,  and  we  passed  on. 

All  along  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  the  yesterday-fledged 
soldiers  were  straggling  about,  glad  to  have  a  day  of 
leisure.  They  brandished  their  bayonets  with  a  newly 
acquired  grace,  pointing  them  in  front  of  them  in  such 
a  reckless  way  that  people  made  a  large  circle  around 
them,  frightened  to  death. 

As  we  passed  the  Hotel  de  Ville  we  saw  the  red  flag 
of  the  Communards  waving  over  the  Palace.  Barri- 
cades and  cannon  filled  the  space  between  that  and  the 
Rue  de  Rivoli.  Here  we  were  stopped  again,  and  tired 
Mr.  Washburn,  annoyed  to  death,  answered  more  stupid 
questions,  showed  his  card  and  documents,  and  gave  a 
little  biography  of  himself. 

I  thought  we  should  never  get  on. 

I  could  have  cried  when  I  saw  the  Tuileries;  it  was 
only  last  August  I  had  had  a  delightful  half -hour  with 
the  Empress  (she  asked  me  to  take  tea  with  her) .  Then 
she  was  full  of  confidence  in  the  triumph  of  the  Em- 
peror (who  could  have  doubted  it?),  pleased  that  her 
son  should  have  received  le  hapieme  du  feu,  as  the  Em- 
peror telegraphed — oh,  the  pity  of  it  all!  and  that  was 
only  last  August — seven  months  ago. 

As  we  drove  by  I  thought  of  the  famous  ball  given 
at  the  Tuileries  last  May  {Le  bal  de  Plebiscite),  the  most 
splendid  thing  of  its  kind  one  had  ever  seen. 

And  now!  The  Tuileries  deserted,  empty,  the  Em- 
peror a  prisoner,  the  Empress  a  fugitive!  All  France 
demoralized !  All  its  prestige  gone !  One  wonders  how 
such  things  can  be. 

Mr.  Washburn  said  he  was  not  sorry  to  have  remained 

276 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

in  Paris  (an  experience  he  would  on  no  account  have 
missed).  He  thought  he  had  been  of  service  to  his  own 
country  and  also  to  France. 

Mrs.  Moulton  remarked,  "What  would  those  shut 
up  in  Paris  have  done  without  you?" 

"Oh!  I  was  only  a  post-office,"  he  answered. 

"The  only  poste  restante  in  Paris,"  I  said  under  my 
breath;  but  I  did  not  dare  utter  anything  so  frivolous 
at  the  moment. 

In  the  Faubourg  St.-Honore  things  were  much  quieter, 
though  there  were  numbers  of  soldiers  slouching  about 
with  their  muskets  pointing  every  which  way.  When  we 
arrived  at  last  in  the  Rue  de  Courcelles  (it  had  taken  us 
four  hours)  all  was  as  quiet  as  Sunday  in  Boston. 

Mr.  Moulton  had  been  almost  crazy  with  anxiety; 
but  the  thought  that  we  were  sailing  under  the  American 
colors  had  calmed  him  somewhat,  and  his  past  emo- 
tions did  not  prevent  him  from  reading  the  Journal  des 
Dehats  to  us.  I  slipped  off  to  bed  tired  out,  but  thank- 
ful not  to  be  any  longer  "under  protection." 

March  20th. 

Louis  asked  permission  to  go  and  assist  at  the  procla- 
mation of  the  Commune,  which  was  to  be  read  at  the 
Hotel  de  Ville. 

There  was  a  platform  built  in  front  of  the  fagade, 
which  was  decorated  with  many  red  flags  and  covered 
with  a  red  carpet,  and  all  the  new  members  of  the  com- 
mittee wore  the  symbolical  red  sashes  over  their  worthy 
shoulders.  The  statue  of  Henry  II.  was  duly  draped 
with  red  flags  and  ragged  boys.     Louis  stood  first  and 

19  277 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

foremost  among  many  of  his  old  comrades,  the  famous 
and  plucky  Zouaves.  Henri  d'Assy  read  the  proclama- 
tion out  in  a  loud  voice,  and  informed  the  public  that 
the  Commune  (this  new  and  charming  infant)  was 
baptized  in  the  name  of  Liberie,  EgaliM,  and  Fraternity. 
There  was  great  enthusiasm,  and  a  salvo  of  artillery 
underHned  the  big  words,  and  there  arose  a  mighty 
shout  of  "Vive  la  Commune!'"  from  thousands  of  hoarse 
throats  which  shook  the  very  earth.  Louis's  account 
was  worth  hearing;  but  mine  is  only  the  truth  with 
variations.  He  was  most  impressed,  and  I  fancy  it 
would  not  have  taken  much  persuasion  to  have  made 
him  a  red-hot  Communist  then  and  there. 

Great  excitement  prevailed  all  Sunday.  The  Com- 
munists remained  in  possession  of  all  the  public  build- 
ings. The  red  flag  was  hoisted  everywhere,  even  from 
the  palace  of  the  Princess  Mathilde,  who,  as  you  know, 
lives  directly  opposite  us.  The  Princess  had  left  Paris 
last  September.  All  the  world  knows  how  our  clever 
American  dentist,  Dr.  Evans,  helped  the  Empress  safely 
out  of  Paris,  and  of  her  flight ;  and  after  the  catastrophe 
of  Sedan  it  would  have  been  dangerous  for  any  member 
of  the  Imperial  family  to  have  remained  here.  As  I 
look  from  my  window  across  to  the  Princess's  palace, 
and  see  all  the  windows  open  and  the  courtyard  filled 
with  shabby  soldiers,  I  realize  that  we  are  en  pleine 
Commune,  and  wonder  when  we  shall  come  out  of  all 
this  chaos,  and  how  it  will  all  end. 

To-day  there  was  a  great  demonstration  in  the  streets. 

A  young  fellow  named  Henri  de  Pene  thought  if  he 
could  collect  enough  people  to  follow  him  he  would 
lead  them  to  the  barricades  in  the  Place  Vendome,  in 

278 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

order  to  beg  the  Communards,  in  the  name  of  the  people, 
to  restore  order  and  quiet  in  the  city.  He  sent  word 
beforehand  that  they  would  come  there  unarmed. 

De  Pene  started  at  a  very  early  hour  from  the  distant 
Boulevards,  calling  to  every  one  and  beckoning  to  them, 
in  order  to  make  them  come  from  their  balconies  and 
from  their  work,  and  shouting  to  all  in  the  streets, 
managed  to  assemble  a  large  crowd  to  join  in  his  cour- 
ageous undertaking. 

I  happened  to  go  at  one  o'clock  to  Worth's,  in  the 
Rue  de  la  Paix,  and,  finding  the  street  barred,  I  left  my 
coupe  in  the  Rue  des  Petits  Champs,  telling  Louis  to 
wait  for  me  in  the  Rue  St.-Amaud  (just  behind  the  Rue 
de  la  Paix),  and  I  walked  to  No.  7. 

I  wondered  why  there  were  so  few  people  in  the 
streets.  The  Place  Vendome  was  barricaded  with  pav- 
ing-stones, and  cannon  were  pointing  down  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix.  I  walked  quietly  along  to  Worth's,  and  hardly 
had  I  reached  his  salon  than  we  heard  distant,  con- 
fused sounds,  and  then  the  shouting  in  the  street  below 
made  us  all  rush  to  the  windows. 

What  a  sight  met  our  eyes! 

This  handsome  young  fellow,  De  Pene,  his  hat  in  his 
outstretched  hand,  followed  by  a  crowd  of  men,  women, 
and  children,  looked  the  picture  of  life,  health,  and 
enthusiasm. 

De  Pene,  seeing  people  on  Worth's  balcony,  beckoned 
to  them  to  join  him;  but  Mr.  Worth  wisely  withdrew 
inside,  and,  shaking  his  Anglo-Saxon  head,  said,  "Not 
I."     He,  indeed! 

The  crowd  bore  banners  on  which  were  written:  *'Les 
Amis  du  Peiiple,"  ''Amis  de  VOrdre,"  "Pour  la  Paix,'' 

279 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  one  with  "Nous  ne  sommes  pas  arm^s."  This  mass 
of  humanity  walked  down  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  filling  the 
whole  breadth  of  it. 

One  can't  imagine  the  horror  we  felt  when  we  heard 
the  roar  of  a  cannon,  and  looking  down  saw  the  street 
filled  with  smoke,  and  frightened  screams  and  terrified 
groans  reached  our  ears.  Some  one  dragged  me  inside 
the  window,  and  shut  it  to  drown  the  horrible  noises 
outside.  De  Pene  was  the  first  who  was  killed.  The 
street  was  filled  with  dead  and  wounded.  Mr.  Hot- 
tingeur  (the  banker)  was  shot  in  the  arm.  The  living 
members  of  Les  Amis  scampered  off  as  fast  as  their  legs 
could  carry  them,  while  the  wounded  were  left  to  the 
care  of  the  shopkeepers,  and  the  dead  were  abandoned 
where  they  fell  until  further  aid  should  come. 

It  was  all  too  horrible! 

I  felt  terribly  agitated,  and,  moreover,  deadly  sick. 
My  one  thought  was  to  reach  my  carriage  and  get  home 
as  quickly  as  possible.  But  how  was  I  to  accomplish 
it?  The  Rue  de  la  Paix  was,  of  course,  impossible. 
Worth  had  a  courtyard,  but  no  outlet  into  the  Rue 
St.-Amaud.  He  suggested  that  I  should  go  through 
his  ateliers,  which  he  had  at  the  top  of  the  house,  and 
reach  an  adjoining  apartment,  from  which  I  might  de- 
scend to  the  Rue  St.-Arnaud,  where  I  would  find  my 
carriage.  He  told  one  of  his  women  to  lead  the  way, 
and  I  followed.  We  toiled  up  many  flights  of  wearisome 
steps  until  we  arrived  at  the  above-mentioned  ateliers. 
These  communicated  with  another  apartment,  of  which 
Worth's  woman  had  the  key.  On  her  opening  the  door 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  small  bedroom  (not  in  the  tidiest 
condition),  which  appeared  to  have  just  been  occupied. 

280 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

We  passed  through  this  room  and  came  out  to  a  stair- 
case, where  the  demoiselle  said,  "You  have  only  to  go 
down  here."  I  therefore  proceeded  to  descend  the 
five  flights  of  waxed  steps,  holding  on  to  the  wobbly 
iron  railing,  my  legs  trembling,  my  head  swimming, 
and  my  heart  sick.  My  only  hope  was  to  reach  the 
carriage  and  home ! 

When  at  last  I  came  to  the  porte-cochere  I  found  it 
closed  and  locked,  and  the  frightened  concierge  would 
not  open  for  me.  Fortunately,  I  had  a  gold  piece  to 
make  her  yield  to  my  demand.  She  reluctantly  un- 
fastened the  door  and  I  went  out.  The  street  was  filled 
with  a  terrified  mob  howling  and  flying  in  every  direc- 
tion. I  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  carriage  away  up  the 
street,  and  I  saw  a  hand  gesticulating  above  the  heads 
of  the  crowd,  which  I  recognized  as  Louis's.  It  was  the 
only  one  with  a  glove  on ! 

I  pushed  my  way  through  the  mass  of  people,  saying, 
very  politely,  "Pardon,"  as  I  pushed,  and  very  politely. 
"Merci,"  after  I  had  passed. 

My  horse  had  been  unharnessed,  and  a  man  was  try- 
ing to  lead  him  away  in  spite  of  Louis's  remonstrances. 
The  man  had  hold  of  one  side  of  the  bridle,  while  Louis, 
with  a  pluck  unknown  before,  kept  a  firm  grip  on  the 
other,  the  horse  being  tugged  at  on  both  sides;  and  had 
he  not  been  the  angel  he  was,  there  would  have  been 
trouble  in  that  little  street. 

The  man  holding  the  bridle  opposite  to  Louis  seemed 
a  most  formidable  person  to  me.  Still,  I  tried  to  smile 
with  placid  calmness,  and  though  I  was  shaking  all 
over  said,  "Pardon,  Monsieur,  will  you  permit  me 
to  have  my  horse  harnessed?"     I  think  he  was  com- 

281 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pletely  taken  off  his  guard,  for,  with  the  intuitive  gal- 
lantry of  a  Frenchman,  he  answered  me  amiably,  throw- 
ing back  his  coat,  and  showing  me  his  badge,  said,  "I 
am  the  agent  of  the  Committee  of  Public  Safety,  and  it 
is  for  the  Government  that  I  take  the  horse." 

I  made  him  observe  that  it  would  be  very  difBcult 
for  me  to  walk  to  my  home  in  the  Rue  de  Courcelles,  and 
if  his  government  wanted  the  horse  it  could  come  there 
and  fetch  it.  He  looked  doubtfully  at  me,  as  if  weighing 
the  situation,  then  said,  very  courteously,  "I  under- 
stand, Madame,  and  I  give  you  back  your  horse."  And 
he  even  helped  Louis  to  rehamess  the  horse,  who  seemed 
happy  to  return  to  his  shafts. 

When  I  arrived  home  I  had  to  go  to  bed,  I  was  so 
exhausted.  Mademoiselle  W administered  the  in- 
fallible camomile  tea,  her  remedy  for  every  ill.  Her 
mind  cannot  conceive  of  any  disease  which  is  not  cured 
by  camomile  tea,  unless  in  extremis,  when  fleurs  d' Gran- 
ger takes  its  place. 

24th  of  March. 

The  American  secretary,  Mr.  Hoffman,  and  his  wife, 
who  are  living  in  Versailles,  invited  Mrs.  Motilton  and 
me  to  luncheon  to-day,  saying  that  Mr.  Washburn  was 
also  of  the  party;  therefore  we  need  have  no  fear  of 
being  molested  or  inconvenienced  on  our  way. 

There  were  only  two  trains  to  Versailles  now.  We 
took  the  one  at  midday  from  Paris,  and  arrived  slowly 
but  surely  at  the  dirty,  smoky  station,  where  we  found 
Mr.  Hoffman  waiting  for  us  with  a  landau,  in  which  we 
drove  to  his  house. 

We  had  an  excellent  luncheon,  to  which  we  all  did 

282 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

justice;  after  which  Mr.  Hoffman  proposed  our  going 
to  the  AssembUe,  which  has  its  sittings  in  the  Palace, 
and  we  readily  consented.  I  was  particularly  glad  to 
have  an  opportunity  to  see  the  notabilities  whose  names 
and  actions  had  been  our  daily  food  these  last  months. 

We  sat  in  Mr.  Hoffman's  box,  who,  in  his  position  as 
secretary  of  the  American  Legation,  had  been  obliged 
to  attend  all  these  seances  from  the  first.  He  knew  all 
the  celebrities,  and  most  amiably  pointed  them  out  to 
me.  Thiers  was  in  the  president's  chair;  Louis  Blanc, 
Jules  Favre,  Jules  Grevy,  and  others  were  on  the  plat- 
form. 

I  confess  I  was  rather  disappointed;  I  thought  that 
this  pleiades  of  brilliant  minds  would  surely  overcome 
me  to  such  a  degree  that  I  should  not  sleep  for  weeks. 
But,  strangely  enough,  they  had  just  the  opposite  effect. 
I  think  Mr.  Washburn  must  be  writing  a  book  on  modern 
history,  and  Mr.  Hoffman  must  be  writing  one  on  ancient 
history.  I  sat  between  them — a  drowsy  victim — feeling 
as  if  my  brain  was  making  spiral  efforts  to  come  out  of 
the  top  of  my  head. 

While  I  was  trying  with  all  my  might  to  listen  to 
Thiers 's  speech,  who,  I  was  sure,  was  saying  something 
most  interesting,  Mr.  Hoffman,  on  one  side  of  me,  would 
say,  in  a  low  tone,  "Just  think  of  it !  Here,  in  these  very 
same  boxes,  the  pampered  and  powdered  [or  something 
like  that]  Court  of  Louis  XIV.  sat  and  listened  to 
Rameau's  operas."  I  tried  to  seem  impressed.  Then, 
on  the  other  side,  I  would  hear,  "Do  you  know,  Mrs. 
Moulton,  that  the  Communists  have  just  taken  seven 
millions  of  francs  from  the  Bank  of  France?"  The 
distant,   squeaky  voice  of  Thiers  trying  to  penetrate 

283 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

space,  said,  "La  force  ne  fonde  rien,  parce  qu'elle  ne 
resout  rien."  And  when  I  was  hoping  to  comprehend 
why  "La  force"  did  not  "fonder"  anything  I  would  hear 
Mr.  Hoffman  whisper,  "When  you  think  that  Louis  XVL 
and  Marie  Antoinette  passed  the  last  evening  they  ever 
spent  in  Versailles  in  this  theater!"  "Really,"  I  replied 
vaguely.  My  other  neighbor  remarked,  "You  know  the 
'Reds'  are  concentrating  for  a  sortie  to  Versailles." 
"You  don't  say  so!"  I  answered,  dreadfully  confused. 

There  would  be  a  moment's  pause,  and  I  caught  the 
sound  of  General  Billet's  deep  basso  proposing  that  the 
French  nation  should  adopt  the  family  of  General  Le- 
comte,  who  had  been  so  mercilessly  butchered  by  the 
mob.  Mr.  Hoffman,  continuing  his  train  of  thought, 
remembered  that  Napoleon  III.  gave  that  "magnificent 
dinner"  to  Queen  Victoria  in  this  theater.  Jules  Grevy 
talked  at  great  length  about  something  I  did  not  hear, 
and  when  I  asked  Mr.  Hoffman  what  it  was,  he  an- 
swered me,  something  I  did  not  understand.  Jules 
Favre  next  spoke  about  the  future  glories  of  noire  glori- 
eux  pays  and  the  destiny  of  France.  These  remarks 
were  received  with  tremendous  applause.  People  stood 
up,  and  ladies  waved  their  handkerchiefs,  every  one 
seeming  very  excited;  but  my  American  friends  were 
not  greatly  impressed.  "How  typical!"  says  Mr. 
Hoffman.     "What  rubbish!"  says  Mr.  Washburn. 

When  we  returned  to  Paris  we  found  Mr.  Moulton 
in  a  flutter  of  agitation.  Beaumont  (the  renowned  and 
popular  painter)  had  been  at  the  house  in  the  afternoon, 
and  had  asked  Mr.  Moulton's  permission  to  bring  Cour- 
bet  (the  celebrated  artist,  now  a  Communard)  to  see  us. 
Mr.  Moulton  had  no  sooner  said  yes  than  he  regretted 

284 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

his  impulsiveness,  but  he  forgot  to  call  Beaumont  back 
to  tell  him  so.  The  result  was  that  we  had  the  visit 
of  Courbet  last  evening. 

Mr.  Moulton  put  on  a  bold  face  and  broke  the  news 
to  us  on  our  arrival;  but,  contrary  to  his  fears,  Mrs. 
Moulton  and  I  were  enchanted.  Mademoiselle  Wissem- 
bourg  was  not  so  enthusiastic.  A  live  Communard  at 
such  near  focus  had  no  attraction  for  her. 

Beaumont's  politics  are  sadly  wanting  in  color,  mak- 
ing him  supremely  indifferent  to  other  people's  politics; 
and,  as  he  has  a  great  admiration  for  Courbet  as  an 
artist,  he  does  not  care  whether  he  is  a  Commimard  or 
not. 

We  waited  with  impatience  for  the  appointed  hour, 
and  lo!  Courbet  stood  before  us.  Mademoiselle  Wis- 
sembourg  had  once  remarked  that  she  had  great  sym- 
pathy for  the  people,  who  must  feel  themselves  op- 
pressed and  degraded  by  the  rich  and  powerful,  and  so 
forth.  But  I  noticed,  all  the  same,  that  she  retired 
into  a  corner,  probably  thinking  Courbet  was  bristling 
all  over  with  pistols,  as  behoves  a  Communard. 

Courbet  is  not  handsome;  he  is  fat  and  flabby  (of  the 
Falstaff  type),  with  a  long  beard,  short  hair,  and  small 
eyes;  but  he  is  very  clever,  as  clever  as  Beaumont, 
which  is  saying  a  good  deal. 

Of  course  they  talked  of  "the  situation."  Who  could 
help  it?  Courbet  belongs  more  to  the  fraternity  part 
of  the  motto  than  he  does  to  the  equality  part  of  the 
Commune !  He  is  not  bloodthirsty,  nor  does  he  go 
about  shooting  people  in  the  back.  He  is  not  that  kind ! 
He  really  believes  (so  he  says)  in  a  Commune  based  on 
principles  of  equality  and  liberty  of  the  masses.     Mr, 

285 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Moulton  pointed  out  that  unlimited  liberty  in  the  hands 
of  a  mob  might  become  dangerous ;  but  he  admitted  that 
fraternity  absolves  many  sins. 

They  talked  on  till  quite  late.  Beaumont  showed 
him  his  last  picture,  which  he  (Beaumont)  thinks  very 
fine,  but  all  Courbet  said  was,  "What  a  pretty  frame!" 
I  don't  know  if  Mrs.  Moulton  and  I  felt  much  admira- 
tion for  the  great  artist,  but  he  left  us  convinced  that 
we  were  all  in  love  with  him.  We  told  Mr.  Moulton  we 
thought  it  might  get  us  into  trouble  if  Courbet  vibrated 
between  us  and  the  hotbed  of  Communism.  But  Mr. 
Moulton  answered,  "What  does  it  matter  now?"  as  if 
the  end  of  the  world  had  come. 

Perhaps  it  has. 

March  24th. 

Since  I  have  been  in  Paris  I  have  wished  every  day 
to  go  and  see  my  former  singing-master,  Delsarte;  but 
something  has  always  prevented  me. 

To-day,  however,  having  nothing  else  to  do,  I  de- 
cided to  make  the  long-projected  visit ;  that  is,  if  I  could 
persuade  Mademoiselle  to  accompany  me.  After  my 
experience  in  the  Rue  St.-Arnaud  the  other  day  I  did 
not  venture  to  drive,  so  we  started  off  to  walk  (with 
Mademoiselle's  reluctant  consent)  to  the  Boulevard  de 
Courcelles,  where  Delsarte  moves  and  has  his  being. 
^'  Poor  Mademoiselle  was  frightened  almost  to  death, 
shaking  with  terror  at  every  sound,  and  imagining  that 
the  Communards  were  directly  behind  us,  dodging  our 
footsteps  and  spying  upon  our  actions.  At  the  sight  of 
every  ragged  soldier  we  met  she  expected  to  be  dragged 
off  to  prison,  and  when  they  passed  us  without  so  much 
as  glancing  at  us  I  think  she  felt  rather  disappointed, 

286 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF. MEMORY 

as  if  they  had  not  taken  advantage  of  their  oppor- 
tunities. 

Finally  we  reached  the  house,  and  mounted  the  six 
stories,  the  stairs  of  which  are  steep,  slippery,  and  tiring. 
On  our  upward  flight  I  remarked  to  Mademoiselle  that 
I  wished  Delsarte  lived  in  other  climes;  but  she  was  far 
too  much  out  of  breath  to  notice  any  such  little  joke  as 
this.  I  saw  no  change  either  in  him  or  in  any  of  his 
surroundings. 

He  told  us  that  he  had  suffered  many  privations  and 
deprivations  while  the  siege  was  going  on.  Probably 
this  is  true ;  but  I  do  not  see  how  he  could  have  needed 
very  much  when  he  had  the  piano  to  fall  back  on,  with 
all  its  resources. 

How  vividly  the  scenes  of  my  former  lessons  loomed 
up  before  me  when  I  stood  shivering  with  cold  in  the 
never-heated  room,  my  voice  almost  frozen  in  my 
throat,  and  was  obliged  to  sing  with  those  awful  dia- 
grams staring  me  in  the  face! 

Delsarte  asked  me  many  questions  about  my  music: 
whether  I  had  had  the  heart  to  sing  pendant  ce  debdcle. 
I  said,  "Debdcle  or  no  debdcle,  I  could  never  help  sing- 
ing." 

My  dear  old  friend  Auber  came  to  see  me  this  after- 
noon. He  had  not  had  much  difficulty  in  driving 
through  the  streets,  as  he  had  avoided  those  that 
were  barricaded.  We  had  a  great  deal  to  talk  about. 
He  had  been  in  Paris  all  through  the  war  and  had 
suffered  intensely,  both  physically  and  mentally;  he 
looked  wretched,  and  for  the  first  time  since  I  had 
known  him  seemed  depressed  and  unhappy.  He  is 
eighty-six  years  old  and  now  he  looks  his  age.     He  is  a 

287 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

true  Parisian,  adores  his  Paris,  and  never  leaves  it,  even 
during  the  summer,  when  Paris  is  insufferable.  One  can 
easily  imagine  his  grief  at  seeing  his  beloved  city  as  it  is 
now.  He  was  full  of  uneasy  forebodings  and  distress. 
He  gave  me  the  most  harrowing  description  of  the  kill- 
ing of  General  Lecomte!  It  seems  that  the  mob  had 
seized  him  in  his  home  and  carried  him  to  the  garden  of 
some  house,  where  they  told  him  he  was  to  be  judged  by  a 
conseil  de  guerre,  and  left  him  to  wait  an  hour  in  the 
most  pitiable  frame  of  mind. 

The  murder  of  General  Clement  Thomas  was  even 
more  dreadful.  Auber  knew  him  well;  described  him  as 
kind  and  gentle,  and  "honest  to  the  tips  of  his  fingers." 
They  hustled  him  into  the  same  garden  where  poor 
General  Lecomte  already  was,  pushed  him  against  the 
wall,  and  shot  him,  killing  him  instantly.  Then  they 
rushed  upon  their  other  victim,  saying,  "Now  is  your 
turn."  In  vain  did  Lecomte  beg  to  be  judged  by  his 
equals,  and  spoke  of  his  wife  and  children.  But  his 
tormentors  would  have  none  of  that,  and  shot  him 
then  and  there.  Lecomte  fell  on  his  knees;  they 
dragged  him  to  his  feet,  and  continued  firing  into  his 
still  warm  body.  When  the  populace  was  allowed 
to  come  in  they  danced  a  saturnalia  over  his  corpse. 
Auber  said :  ' '  My  heart  bleeds  when  I  gaze  on  all 
that  is  going  on  about  me.  Alas !  I  have  lived  too 
long." 

I  tried  to  make  him  talk  of  other  things,  to  divert 
him  from  his  dark  thoughts.  We  played  some  duets  of 
Bach,  and  he  accompanied  me  in  some  of  his  songs.  I 
sang  them  to  please  him,  though  my  heart  was  not 
"attuned  to  music,"  as  the  poets  say. 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

March  25,  187 1. 

I  have  not  had  the  time  to  write  for  some  days,  but 
I  am  sure  you  will  forgive  me.  Mrs,  Moulton  and  I 
have  been  going  to  the  ambulances  every  day  this  week. 

There  are  many  of  these  temporary  hospitals  estab- 
lished all  over  Paris,  supplied  with  army  surgeons  and 
nurses. 

Mrs.  Moulton,  like  many  other  ladies,  had  volunteered 
her  services  during  the  war,  and  had  interested  herself 
in  this  worthy  cause;  and  as  she  is  about  to  leave  for 
Dinard  one  of  these  days,  she  wanted  me  to  take  up  her 
work  in  the  hospital  of  the  Boulevard  la  Tour-Mau- 
bourg.  She  knows  all  the  directors  and  nurses  and 
introduced  me  to  them. 

The  director  asked  me  if  I  would  like  to  help  in  the 
section  des  etr angers.  I  replied  that  I  would  do  any- 
thing they  wished,  hoping  inwardly  that  I  might  de- 
velop a  talent  for  nursing,  which,  until  now,  had  lain 
dormant. 

It  was  not  with  a  light  heart  I  entered  the  ward  to 
which  I  was  assigned,  and  saw  the  long  rows  of  beds 
filled  with  sick  and  wounded. 

My  first  patient  was  a  very  young  German  (he  did 
not  look  more  than  twenty) .  He  had  been  shot  through 
the  eyes,  and  was  so  bandaged  that  I  could  hardly  see 
anything  but  his  mouth.  Poor  little  fellow!  He  was 
very  blond,  with  a  nicely  shaped  head  and  a  fine, 
delicate  mouth. 

His  lips  trembled  when  I  laid  my  hand  on  his  white 
and  thin  hand,  lying  listlessly  on  the  coverlid.  I  asked 
him  if  I  could  do  anything  for  him. 

289 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

He  answered  me  by  asking  if  I  could  speak  German. 
On  my  saying  that  I  could,  he  said  he  would  like  to 
have  me  write  to  his  mother. 

I  asked  the  director  if  it  was  allowed  for  me  to  com- 
municate with  his  family.  He  answered  that  there 
would  be  no  objection  if  the  contents  of  the  letter  were 
understood  by  me. 

Therefore,  armed  with  pencil  and  paper,  I  returned 
to  my  invalid's  bedside,  who,  on  hearing  me,  whispered: 
"I  thought  you  had  gone  and  would  not  come  back." 

"You  don't  think  I  would  be  so  unkind  as  that?"  I 
answered. 

I  felt  that  we  were  already  friends.  I  sat  down,  say- 
ing that  I  was  ready  to  write  if  he  would  dictate. 

His  lips  moved ;  but  I  could  not  hear,  and  was  obliged 
to  put  my  ear  quite  close  to  his  poor  bandaged  face  to 
hear  the  words,  Meine  Hebe  Mutter.  He  went  on  dic- 
tating, and  I  writing  as  well  as  I  could,  until  there  came 
a  pause.  I  waited,  and  then  said,  "Und?"  He  stam- 
mered something  which  I  made  out  to  be,  ' '  It  hurts  me 
to  cry,"  whereupon  I  cried,  the  tears  rolling  fast  down 
my  cheeks.     Fortunately  he  did  not  see  me! 

This  is  my  first  trial,  and  I  have  already  broken 
down! 

I  told  him  I  would  finish  the  letter  and  send  it  to  his 
mother,  "Frau  Wanda  Schultz,  Biebrich  am  Rhein," 
which  I  did,  adding  a  little  postscript  that  I  was  looking 
after  her  son,  and  would  take  the  best  care  of  him.  I 
hope  she  got  the  letter. 

The  doctor  advised  the  patient  to  sleep,  so  I  left  him 
and  went  to  another  bed,  which  they  indicated. 

This  was  an  American,  a  newspaper  reporter  from 

290 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Camden,  New  Jersey.  He  had  joined  Faidherbe's  army 
in  February,  and  had  been  wounded  in  the  leg.  He 
was  glad  to  talk  English.  "They  do  things  mighty  well 
over  here,"  said  he;  "but  I  guess  I'll  have  to  have  my 
leg  cut  off,  all  the  same." 

When  I  put  the  question  to  him,  "What  can  I  do  for 
you?"  he  replied,  "If  you  have  any  papers  or  illus- 
trated news  or  pictures,  I  should  like  to  see  them."  I 
said  I  would  bring  some  to-morrow. 

He  was  very  cheerful  and  very  pleasant  to  talk  with. 

On  reaching  the  Rue  de  Courcelles  we  found  Mr. 
Washburn. 

He  was  utterly  disgusted  with  the  Communards. 
He  even  became  violent  when  he  spoke  of  their  treat- 
ment of  Generals  Lecomte  and  Clement  Thomas.  He 
rather  took  their  defense  during  the  first  days  of  the 
Commune,  saying  they  were  acting  in  good  faith;  but 
now  I  think  he  has  other  ideas  about  them. 

Auber  also  came  at  five  o'clock;  he  gets  more  and 
more  despondent,  and  is  very  depressed.  He  had  heard 
that  the  Communards  had  commenced  pillaging  in  the 
Quartier  de  I'Odeon,  also  that  the  Place  Vendome  was 
being  plundered. 

To  what  are  we  coming? 

The  next  day  I  found  my  little  German  soldier  de- 
cidedly worse.  He  had  received  a  letter  from  the 
Mutter,  which  he  asked  me  to  read  to  him.  I  tried  my 
best  to  overcome  the  difficulties  of  the  writing  and 
spelling,  and  made  many  mistakes,  causing  the  poor 
little  fellow  to  smile.  He  corrected  me  every  time  very 
conscientiously. 

I  did  feel  so  sorry  for  him;  he  seemed  so  gentle  and 

291 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

never  complained  of  his  sufferings,  which  must  have 
been  intense.  The  nurse,  feeling  his  pulse,  announced 
an  increase  of  fever,  and  thought  he  had  better  rest. 
When  I  said,  in  as  cheerful  a  voice  as  I  could  assume: 
"Well,  good-by  for  to-day,"  he  said,  "To-morrow  you 
will  come?"  Alas!  there  was  to  be  no  to-morrow  for 
him. 

My  other  patient,  Mr.  Parker,  appeared  very  com- 
fortable, and  immensely  pleased  to  see  that  I  had  not 
forgotten  to  bring  the  newspapers  and  pictin-es.  I  also 
took  a  chess-board,  thinking  to  amuse  him.  The  doc- 
tor looked  dismayed  when  he  saw  me  carrying  a  chess- 
board under  my  arm.  "Madame,"  he  said,  "I  think 
that  chess  is  too  fatiguing  for  an  invalid ;  perhaps  some- 
thing milder  would  be  better.  I  have  always  under- 
stood," he  smilingly  added,  "that  chess  is  a  game  for 
people  in  the  most  robust  health,  and  with  all  their 
mental  faculties." 

I  felt  utterly  crushed.  This  was  the  way  my  at- 
tempts to  divert  the  sick  and  the  wounded  were  re- 
ceived !  I  thought  how  little  I  understood  the  character 
of  hospital  work.  Mr.  Parker,  evidently  feeling  sorry 
for  my  discomfiture,  told  the  doctor  it  would  amuse  him 
to  play  checkers  if  he  would  allow  it.  The  doctor  con- 
sented to  this,  and  I  sent  Louis  off  to  buy  a  box  of 
checkers.  Mr.  Parker  and  I  played  two  games,  and 
he  beat  me  each  game,  which  put  him  in  splendid  spirits, 
and  I  think  did  him  no  harm. 

Mrs.  Moulton  and  I  drove  out  to  the  Bois  after  the 
ambulance  visit.  I  had  not  been  there  since  last 
August.  How  changed  it  was!  The  broad  Avenue  de 
rimp^ratrice,  where  the  lovely  Empress  drove  every 

292 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

day  in  her  caliche  a  la  Daumont,  surrounded  by  the  mag- 
nificent Cent  Gardes,  is  now  almost  impossible  to  drive 
in.  The  trees  are  cut  down,  and  the  roads  full  of  ditches 
and  stones. 

Rochefort,  who  was  in  power  while  the  siege  was  in 
progress,  suggested  some  medieval  methods  too  child- 
ish for  belief — to  annihilate  the  whole  German  army  if 
they  should  enter  Paris.  He  had  ordered  pitfalls  in  the 
Avenue  de  I'lmperatrice — holes  about  three  feet  deep — 
in  which  he  intended  the  German  cavalry  to  tumble 
headlong.  He  thought,  probably,  the  army  would  come 
in  the  night  and  not  see  them.  Rochefort  had  also  built 
towers,  as  in  the  time  of  the  Crusaders,  from  which  hot 
oil  and  stones  were  to  be  poured  on  the  enemy.  Did 
you  ever  hear  of  anything  so  idiotic  ?  He  little  dreamt 
that  the  German  army  would  take  possession  of  Paris, 
bivouac  in  the  Champs-Elysees,  and  quietly  march  out 
again. 

We  visited  the  Pre  Catalan,  where  last  year  fashion- 
able society  met  every  day  to  flirt  and  drink  milk.  That 
is,  as  you  may  imagine,  minus  cows.  These  had,  like 
all  the  other  animals,  been  eaten  and  digested  long  ago. 
Thick  hides  not  being  at  a  premium,  the  hippopotamus 
and  rhinoceros  had  been  kindly  spared  to  posterity. 

March  2gth. 

To-day  I  went  to  the  ambulances  as  usual.  The  doc- 
tor greeted  me  with  his  usual  kindness;  he  said  there 
was  an  invalid  for  whom  I  was  needed,  and  conducted 
me  to  his  bedside. 

My  new  patient  was  a  German  officer  about  thirty- 

20  293 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

five  years  old.  He  said  he  came  from  Munich.  I  told 
him  about  Count  Arco  (also  from  Munich),  whom  he 
knew,  and  about  Petit  Val,  in  which  he  seemed  inter- 
ested. We  talked  music,  and  he  became  quite  excited 
when  he  spoke  of  Wagner,  to  whom,  according  to  him, 
no  one  could  compare.  I  did  not  want  to  discuss  this 
wide  subject ;  I  merely  remarked  that  Mendelssohn  and 
Weber  had  their  good  points,  which  he  allowed,  but 
replied  that  they  were  utterly  out  of  fashion.  I  did  not 
agree  with  him,  and,  to  show  that  Weber  was  a  genius, 
I  hummed  the  prayer  from  "Der  Freischutz." 

There  was  a  visible  movement  among  the  white- 
covered  beds,  and  the  nurses  frowned,  while  the  doctor 
came  hurriedly  toward  me,  holding  up  his  finger  warn- 
ingly. 

I  really  have  no  talent  for  nursing.  It  seems  that 
everything  I  do  is  wrong. 

The  German  officer  said,  when  I  went  away,  *T  will 
convince  you  to-morrow,  when  you  come,  that  Wagner 
is  the  greatest  genius  living."  I  answered  that  un- 
doubtedly he  would,  and  bade  him  good-by. 

When  I  reached  the  carriage  I  found  a  small  crowd 
collected  around  it,  and  I  hurried  to  get  in,  and  hardly 
had  time  to  shut  the  door  when  Louis  whipped  the 
horse,  and  we  were  galloping  away  toward  home.  Once 
there,  Louis  told  me  that  he  would  respectfully  advise 
me  not  to  go  in  the  carriage  with  a  coachman  in  livery 
again.  Anything,  he  said,  in  the  form  of  luxury  or 
wealth  excited  the  mob,  and  no  one  could  tell  what  it 
might  do  when  excited. 

Therefore  we  decided  to  abolish  the  liveries  for  the 
future.     When  we  reached  home  we  found  that  we  were 

294 


RAOUL    RIGAULT 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

one  horse  less,  the  Communards  having  taken  it  out  of 
the  stables  without  further  ado  than  a  mild  protest 
from  the  frightened  concierge.  The  Comite  de  Trans- 
port promised  to  return  the  horse  when  no  longer 
needed. 

March  31st. 

Dear  Mama, — Mr.  Moulton  thought  it  better  that  I 
should  leave  Paris.  But  to  leave  Paris  one  must  have 
a  passport  from  the  Prefect  of  Police.  He  consulted 
Mr.  Washburn  about  it,  who  not  only  consented  to  give 
me  a  card  of  introduction  to  Raoul  Rigault  (whom  he 
knew  personally),  but  offered  to  send  me  to  the  prefec- 
ture in  his  own  carriage. 

This  morning  at  eleven  the  carriage  was  at  the 
door,  and  with  it  the  promised  card  of  introduction,  I 
noticed  that  the  coachman  had  no  livery,  nor  did  he 
wear  the  cockade  of  the  Legation ;  neither  was  there  any 
servant.  I  suppose  Mr.  Washburn  thought  it  safer  for 
us  to  drive  through  the  streets  without  creating  any 
unnecessary  notice  or  running  the  risk  of  being  insulted. 

Mademoiselle  W accompanied  me,  and  with  her 

the  omnipresent  bag  filled  with  chocolates,  bonbons, 
etc.,  for  any  unforeseen  event. 

On  our  way  she  discoursed  on  the  manner  one  ought 
to  treat  ces  gens-ld.  One  should  (she  said)  not  brusquer 
them,  nor  provoke  them  in  any  way,  but  smile  kindly 
at  them  and  en  generate  be  very  polite. 

I  don't  know  how  many  times  I  had  to  pull  out  my 
billet  de  circulation  before  we  reached  the  prefecture. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  I  had  been  down  the  Rue  de 
Rivoli,  and  I  was  disgusted  when  I  saw  the  half-clad, 

29s 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

half-starved  soldiers,  in  their  dirty  boots  and  down- 
trodden shoes,  slouching  about  with  their  torn  uniforms 
and  carrying  their  rusty  guns  any  which  way. 

At  last  we  arrived,  and  we  were  about  to  descend 
from  the  carriage,  when  a  ragamuffin  of  a  Communist, 
shouldering  his  gun  and  looking  all-important,  sprang 
forward  to  prevent  us;  but  on  showing  my  "billet," 
he  nodded  his  head,  saying,  "C'est  bien." 

At  the  mere  sight  of  him  Mademoiselle  W said, 

"Don't  you  think,  chere  Madame,  that  it  is  better  to 
return  home?"  I  answered:  "Nonsense!  Now  that  we 
are  here,  let  us  go  through  with  it." 

A  few  steps  farther  an  awkward  soldier  happened  to 
drop  his  gun  on  the  pavement.     At  the  sound  of  this, 

poor  Mademoiselle  W almost  sank  on  her  knees 

with  fright. 

The  small  gate  next  to  the  large  iron  one  was  opened, 
and  we  entered  the  courtyard.  This  was  filled  with 
soldiers.  A  sentinel  stood  before  the  door  of  the  large 
corridor  which  led  to  the  Prefect's  office.  Inside  this 
room  stood  a  guard,  better  dressed  and  seemingly  a  per- 
son of  more  importance.  On  showing  Mr.  Washburn's 
card,  I  said  to  him  that  I  had  come  here  for  the  purpose 
of  getting  a  passport,  and  would  like  to  speak  to  Mon- 
sieiir  Rigault  himself. 

We  7/ent  toward  the  door,  which  he  opened,  but  on 

seeing  Mademoiselle  W he  stopped  us  and  asked: 

"Who  is  that  lady?     Has  she  a  card  also?" 

We  had  never  thought  of  this!  I  was  obliged  to  say 
that  she  had  not,  but  she  had  come  to  accompany  me. 

He  said,  rather  bluntly,  ' '  If  she  has  no  card,  I  cannot 
allow  her  to  enter." 

296 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Here  was  a  pretty  plight.     I  told  him,  in  the  suave 

manner  which  Mademoiselle  W had  recommended 

to  me,  that  Mr.  Washburn  would  have  included  this 
lady's  name  on  my  card  had  he  foreseen  that  there 
would  be  any  difficulty  in  allowing  her  to  follow  me  as 
my  companion. 

"Madame,  I  have  strict  orders;  I  cannot  disobey 
them." 

I  did  not  wish  him  to  disobey  them;  but,  neverthe- 
less, I  whispered  to  Mademoiselle  W ,  "Don't  leave 

me,  stay  close  by  me,"  thinking  the  man  would  not,  at 
the  last  moment,  refuse  to  allow  her  to  remain  with  me. 

Alas!  the  door  opened.  I  entered;  the  door  closed 
behind  me;  I  looked  back  and  saw  I  was  alone.  No 
Mademoiselle  in  sight!     My  heart  sank. 

I  was  escorted  from  room  to  room,  each  door  guarded 
by  an  uncouth  soldier,  and  shut  promptly  as  I  passed. 

I  must  have  gone  through  at  least  seven  rooms  before 
I  reached  the  sanctuary  in  which  Monsieur  Raoul 
Rigault  held  his  audience. 

This  autocrat,  whom  the  republicans  (to  their  eternal 
shame  be  it  said)  had  placed  in  power  after  the  4th  of 
September,  is  (and  was  then)  the  most  successful  specimen 
of  a  scamp  that  the  human  race  has  ever  produced.  At 
this  moment  Rigault  has  more  power  than  any  one  else 
in  Paris. 

When  the  guard  opened  the  door  he  pointed  to  the 
table  where  Raoul  Rigault  was  seated  writing  (seemingly 
very  absorbed).  He  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  man  of 
about  thirty-five  or  forty  years  old,  short,  thick-set, 
with  a  full,  round  face,  a  bushy  black  beard,  a  sensuous 
mouth,  and  a  cynical  smile.     He  wore  tortoise-shell  eye- 

297 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

glasses;   but  these  could  not  hide  the  wicked  expression 
of  his  cunning  eyes. 

I  looked  about  me  and  noticed  that  the  room  had  very 
little  furniture;  there  was  only  the  table  at  which  the 
Prefect  sat  and  two  or  three  plain  chairs.  Just  such 
a  chamber  as  Robespierre  might  have  occupied  during 
his  Republique.  There  were  two  gendarmes  standing 
behind  Rigault's  chair  waiting  for  orders,  and  a  man 
(of  whom  I  did  not  take  particular  notice)  leaning 
against  the  mantelpiece  at  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

I  approached  the  table,  waiting  like  a  culprit  for  the 
all-powerful  Rigault  to  look  up  and  notice  me. 

But  he  did  not;  he  continued  to  be  occupied  with 
what  he  was  doing.  So  I  ventured  to  break  the  ice  by 
saying,  "Monsieur,  I  have  come  to  procure  a  passport, 
and  here  is  Mr.  Washburn's  card  (the  American  Minis- 
ter) to  tell  you  who  I  am." 

He  took  the  card  without  condescending  to  look  at  it, 
and  went  on  writing. 

Getting  impatient  at  his  impertinence,  I  ventured 
again  to  attract  his  attention,  and  I  said,  as  politely  as 
possible  (and  as  Mademoiselle  could  have  wished),  "Will 
you  not  kindly  give  me  this  passport,  as  I  wish  to  leave 
Paris  as  soon  as  possible?" 

Thereupon  he  took  up  the  card,  and,  affecting  the 
"Marat"  style,  said,  "Does  the  citoyenne  wish  to  leave 
Paris  ?     Pourquoi  f ' ' 

I  answered  that  I  was  obliged  to  leave  Paris  for  dif- 
ferent reasons. 

He  replied,  with  what  he  thought  a  seductive  smile, 
"I  should  think  Paris  would  be  a  very  attractive  place 
for  a  pretty  woman  like  yourself." 

298 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

How  could  I  make  him  understand  that  I  had  come 
for  a  passport  and  not  for  conversation? 

At  this  moment  I  confess  I  began  to  feel  dreadfully- 
nervous,  seeing  the  powerless  situation  in  which  I  was 
placed,  and  I  saw  in  imagination  visions  of  prison-cells, 
handcuffs,  and  all  the  horrors  which  belong  to  revolu- 
tions. I  heard  the  sonorous  clock  in  the  tower  strike 
the  hour,  and  realized  that  only  minutes,  not  hours,  had 
passed  since  I  had  been  waiting  in  this  dreadful  place. 

"Monsieur,"  I  began  once  more,  "I  am  rather  in 
haste,  and  would  thank  you  if  you  would  give  me  my 
passport." 

Upon  which  he  took  Mr.  Washburn's  so-much-looked- 
at  card,  scrutinized  it,  and  then  scrutinized  me. 

"Are  you  La  Citoyenne  Moulton?" 

I  answered,   "Yes." 

"American?" 

I  replied  I  was,  and  in  petto — mighty  glad  I  was  to 
be  so. 

"Does  the  American  Minister  know  you  personally?" 

"Yes,  very  well." 

"Why  do  you  wish  to  deprive  us  of  your  presence  in 
Paris?" 

I  repeated  that  my  affairs  required  my  presence  else- 
where. 

I  saw  he  was  taking  no  steps  toward  making  out  my 
passport,  and  I  became  more  agitated  and  unnerved 
and  said,  "If  it  is  impossible  for  you.  Monsieur,  to  give 
me  the  passport,  I  will  inform  Mr.  Washburn  of  the  fact, 
and  he  will  no  doubt  come  to  you  himself  for  it." 

This  seemed  to  arouse  him,  for  he  opened  a  drawer 
and  took  out  a  blank  to  be  filled  for  a  passport,  with  an 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

impatient  shrug  of  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  was  bored  to 
death. 

Now  followed  the  most  hateful  and  trying  quart 
(Theure  I  ev»er  passed  in  my  life.  I  fancy  Raoul  Rigault 
had  never  been  in  the  society  of  a  lady  (perhaps  he  had 
never  seen  one),  and  his  innate  coarseness  seemed  to 
make  him  gloat  over  the  present  situation,  and  as  a  true 
repubHcan,  whose  motto  is  Egalite,  Fraternite,  Liberie, 
he  flattered  himself  he  was  on  an  equality  with  me, 
therefore  he  could  take  any  amount  of  liberty.  He  took 
advantage  of  the  unavoidable  questions  that  belong  to 
the  making  out  of  a  passport,  and  showed  a  diabolical 
pleasure  in  tormenting  la  citoyenne  who  stood  help- 
lessly before  him. 

When  it  came  to  the  description  and  the  enumerating 
of  my  features,  he  was  more  obnoxious  than  I  can  ex- 
press. Peering  across  the  table  to  see  whether  my 
eyes  were  brown  or  black,  or  my  hair  black  or  brown, 
he  never  lost  an  opportunity  to  make  a  fawning  remark 
before  writing  it  down.  He  described  my  teint  as  pdle. 
I  felt  pale,  and  think  I  must  have  looked  very  pale,  for 
he  said:  "Vous  etes  bien  pale,  Madame.  Voudriez- 
vous  quelque  chose  a  boire?"  Possibly  he  may  have 
meant  to  be  kind;  but  I  saw  Borgia  written  all  over 
him.     I  refused  his  offer  with  effusion. 

When  he  asked  me  my  age,  he  said,  insinuatingly, 
"Vous  etes  bien  jeune,  Madame,  pour  circuler  seule 
ainsi  dans  Paris." 

I  answered,  "Je  ne  suis  pas  seule.  Monsieur.  Mon 
mari  [I  thought  it  best  to  tell  this  lie]  m'attend  dans 
la  voiture  de  Monsieur  Washburn  et  il  doit  etre  bien 
etonne  de  ma  longue  absence." 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  considered  this  extremely  diplomatic. 

Turning  to  the  man  at  the  mantelpiece,  he  said, 
"Grousset,  do  you  think  we  ought  to  allow  the  citoy- 
enne  to  leave  Paris?" 

Grousset  (the  man  addressed)  stepped  forward  and 
looked  at  Mr.  Washburn's  card,  saying  something  in  an 
undertone  to  Rigault,  which  caused  him  instantly  to 
change  his  manner  toward  me  (I  don't  know  which  was 
worse,  his  overbearing  or  his  fawning  manner). 

"\  uu  must  forgive  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  linger  over  your 
visit  here .  We  don '  t  of  ten  have  such  luck ,  do  we ,  Grousset  ? ' ' 

I  thought  I  should  faint! 

Probably  the  man  Grousset  noticed  my  emotion,  for 
he  came  to  my  rescue  and  said,  politely,  "Madame 
Moulton,  j'ai  eu  I'honneur  de  vous  voir  a  un  bal  a 
rH6tel  de  Ville  I'annee  derniere." 

I  looked  up  with  surprise.  He  was  a  very  handsome 
fellow,  and  I  remembered  quite  well  having  seen  him 
somewhere;  but  did  not  remember  where.  I  was  happy 
indeed  to  find  any  one  who  knew  me  and  could  vouch 
for  me,  and  told  him  so.  He  smiled.  "I  venture  to 
present  myself  to  you,  Madame.  I  am  Pascal  Grousset. 
Can  I  be  of  any  service  to  you?" 

"Indeed  you  can,"  I  answered,  eagerly.  "Please  tell 
Monsieur  Rigault  to  give  me  my  passport;  it  seems  to 
have  been  a  colossal  undertaking  to  get  it."  I  preferred 
the  Pascal  G.  to  the  Rascal  R. 

Grousset  and  Rigault  had  a  little  conversation  to- 
gether, and  presto!  my  longed-for  passport  lay  before 
me  to  sign.  No  Elsa  ever  welcomed  her  Lohengrin 
coming  out  of  the  clouds  as  I  did  my  Lohengrin  coming 
from  the  mantelpiece. 

301 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  signed  my  name  quickly  enough;  Rigault  put  the 
official  seal  on  it,  and,  rising  from  his  chair,  politely 
handed  it  to  me. 

Before  taking  my  leave  of  the  now  over-polite  Pre- 
fect, I  asked  him  how  much  there  wac  to  pay. 

He  courteously  replied,  "Rien,  absolument  rien,"  and 
added  he  was  glad  to  be  of  any  service  to  me ;  and  if  there 
was  anything  more  he  could  do,  I  had  only  to  command. 

I  did  not  say  that  I  thought  he  had  done  enough  for 
one  day,  but  I  bowed  him  good-by  and  turned  to  go 
out. 

Mr.  Pascal  Grousset  offered  me  his  arm,  begging  to 
take  me  to  my  carriage.  The  gendarmes  threw  open 
doors,  and  we  retraced  our  steps  through  all  the  differ- 
ent rooms  until  we  reached  the  one  where  I  had  left 

Mademoiselle  W ,  whom  I  expected  to  find  waiting 

for  me  in  agonizing  anxiety. 

But  what  did  I  see? 

Mademoiselle  soimd  asleep  on  the  bench,  bag,  smile, 
and  all,  gazed  at  and  guarded  by  the  dreaded  soldiers. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Pascal  Grousset,  "that  you  have 
been  greatly  annoyed  this  morning.  Your  interview 
with  the  Prefect  must  have  been  most  painfiil  to  you!" 

*T  confess,"  I  said,  "it  has  never  been  my  fate  to  have 
been  placed  in  just  such  a  situation,  and  I  thank  you, 
de  tout  mon  cceur,  for  your  assistance.  You  certainly 
saved  my  life,  for  I  doubt  if  I  could  have  lived  another 
moment  in  that  room." 

"Perhaps  more  than  your  life,  Madame;  more  than 
you  imagine,  at  any  rate." 

As  he  put  us  in  the  carriage,  he  looked  puzzled  when 
he  saw  le  mari  I  had  said  was  waiting  for  me;    but  a 

302 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

smile  of  comprehension  swept  over  his  face  as  he  met  my 
guilty  glance.     He  apparently  understood  my  reasons. 

On  reaching  home,  tired,  exhausted,  and  oh!  so  hun- 
gry, we  found  Mr.  Washburn.  He  and  Mr.  Moulton 
had  been  very  anxious  about  me,  picturing  to  themselves 
all  sorts  of  horrors,  and  when  I  told  them  what  really 
had  happened  they  felt  that  their  anxieties  had  not  been 
far  from  the  truth.  Mr.  Washburn  laughed  at  the 
subterfuges  I  had  used  and  the  lie  I  had  told.  They 
examined  my  passport  as  a  great  curiosity,  and  noticed 
it  had  Valable  pour  un  an. 

Mr.  Washburn  said,  "Evidently  they  intend  this  sort 
of  thing  to  go  on  forever." 

2jd  of  April. 

Mrs.  Moulton  has  decided  to  leave  for  Dinard,  and 
starts  the  day  after  to-morrow. 

We  have  been  assured  that  the  train  would  make 
connections  as  far  at  least  as  Rennes;  beyond  that  no 
one  could  tell  whether  they  went  regularly  or  not. 

Mrs.  Moulton  had  procured  a  red  billet  de  circulation 
with  a  date,  a  white  one  without  a  date,  Mr.  Wash- 
burn's card,  and  different  passes.  She  was  certainly 
well  prepared  for  any  emergency.  As  there  was  only 
one  day  train,  she  was  obliged  to  take  that  (it  left  at 
seven  o'clock  a.m.). 

A  desire  to  see  some  of  her  friends  before  her  de- 
parture spurred  Mrs.  Moulton  to  invite  them  to  dinner. 
Our  friends  are  now  so  few  and  far  between  that  it  is 
not  difficult  to  know  whom  to  choose  or  where  to  find 
them. 

The  result  was  a  miscellaneous  company,  as  you  will 

303 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

see:  Mr.  Washburn,  Auber,  Massenet,  Beaumont,  and 
Delsarte.  Our  family  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Moulton,  Henry,  Mademoiselle  Wissembourg,  and  my- 
self. 

Mrs.  Moulton  asked  Henry  to  bring  with  him  some 
green  peas  from  Petit  Val  to  eke  out  the  chef's  meager 
menu. 

With  the  aid  of  a  friendly  officer,  Henry  managed  to 
pick  a  "whole  bushel"  (he  always  exaggerates),  which, 
with  his  toilet  articles,  completely  filled  his  large  sac  de 
voyage.  Besides  this,  he  had  a  portmanteau  with  his 
evening  attire,  and  a  package  which  Count  Arco  wished 
to  send  to  Paris. 

Count  Arco  ordered  out  the  "ancient  and  honorable 
relic"  of  our  landau  (the  same  I  had  used  on  the  famous 
1 8th  of  March)  and  the  artillery  horses,  with  their  heavy 
dragoons,  in  order  to  deposit  Henry  and  his  bags  at 
the  pontoon  bridge,  where  a  man  was  found  to  take  them 
as  far  as  the  station. 

To  divert  himself  while  tramping  along  with  his  sac 
de  voyage,  Henry  shelled  the. peas,  casting  the  pods 
behind  him,  after  the  manner  of  Tom  Thumb,  never 
dreaming  that  the  peas  thus  left  to  chum  familiarly  with 
his  toilet  things  might  stiffer  from  the  contact  and  get 
a  new  flavor.  He  was  surprised  to  see  how  the  "bushel " 
had  diminished  in  volume  since  it  started. 

Mrs.  Moulton  had  promised  to  send  the  carriage  to 
meet  Venvoi  extraordinaire;  but  Henry,  finding  none, 
started  to  walk  toward  home,  followed  by  a  porter  carry- 
ing his  extra  baggage. 

What  was  Henry's  astonishment  at  seeing  Louis  drive 
out  of  the  H6tel  de  Ville  with  two  strange  men  in  the 

304 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

coupe.  Henry  hailed  Louis,  who,  though  scared  out 
of  his  wits,  pulled  up  obediently,  disregarding  the  angry 
voices  from  inside.  Henry  opened  the  door  and  ad- 
dressed the  strangers  politely,  "Messieurs,  this  is  my 
carriage;   I  beg  you  to  alight." 

"Par  exemple!"  cried  the  two,  in  chorus.  "Who  are 
you?" 

"I  happen  to  be  the  proprietor  of  the  carriage,"  re- 
plied Henry,  assuming  an  important  air,  "and  if  you 
decline  to  leave  it  I  shall  call  the  Sergent  de  Ville." 
Then  turning  to  the  porter,  he  told  him  to  put  the  bags 
in  the  coupe,  which  he  did. 

' '  Ha,  ha !"  laughed  the  two  men.  ' '  Faites  ga,  mon  bon! 
that  would  be  amusing.     Do  you  know  who  we  are?" 

Henry  did  not,  and  said  he  was  not  particularly 
anxious  to  know. 

"This  is  Monsieur  Felix  Pyat,  and  I  am  his  secretary. 
Here  is  a  bon  for  your  carriage,"  handing  Henry  the 
card. 

"Well,"  said  Henry,  pulling  out  his  card,  "here  is  my 
card,  here  are  my  passes,  and  here  [pointing  to  Louis] 
is  my  coachman!" 

Felix  Pyat  said,  "How  do  we  know  that  this  is  your 
carriage?" 

Henry  acknowledged  that  at  the  moment  he  looked 
so  little  like  the  owner  of  anything  except  the  bag,  in 
which  the  peas  were  rattling  like  bullets,  that  he  for- 
gave the  doubt. 

Louis  was  called  from  the  box  and  the  question  was 
put  to  him.  In  ordinary  moments  Louis  would  have 
mumbled  and  stuttered  hopelessly;  but  he  seemed  to 
have  been  given  overwhelming  strength  on  this  occa- 

305 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

sion,  and  surprised  Henry  by  confirming  his  words  with 
an  unction  worthy  of  the  great  Solomon  himself.  He 
waved  his  whip  aloft,  pointed  to  Henry,  and  putting  his 
hand  on  his  heart  (which  I  am  sure  was  going  at  a 
tremendous  pace)  said,  "I  swear  that  this  is  my  mas- 
ter!" 

No  one  but  a  Communard  could  have  doubted  him; 
but  Felix  Pyat  no  more  beHeved  Louis's  oath  than  he 
did  Henry's  documents. 

"Bien,'"  said  Pyat;  "if  it  is  true  that  you  live  in  the 
Rue  de  Courcelles,  we  will  leave  you  there  and  con- 
tinue on  our  way." 

Now  followed  the  most  spirited  altercation,  all  talk- 
ing at  once,  Henry  trying  to  get  in  the  coupe,  and  the 
others  refusing  to  get  out. 

"A  la  maison!"  shouted  Henry. 

"A  la  Place  Beauvais!"  shouted  the  Communards. 
They  continued  giving  these  contradictory  orders  to 
poor,  bewildered  Louis  until  a  crowd  had  collected,  and 
they  thought  it  better  to  stop  quarreling.  Henry  en- 
tered the  carriage,  meekly  taking  his  seat  on  the  stra- 
pontin opposite  the  intruders,  and  thinking  of  the  peas, 
which  ought  to  have  been  in  the  pot  by  this  time,  as- 
sented to  be  left  at  home,  and  ordered  Louis  to  drive  the 
triumphant  Communards  to  the  Ministry  of  the  In- 
terior, Place  Beauvais. 

It  would  be  difficult  for  one  who  did  not  know  Louis 
to  guess  what  his  state  of  mind  must  have  been.  He 
was  not  of  the  kind  they  make  heroes  of ;  he  was  good, 
kind,  and  timid,  though  he  was  an  ancien  Zouave  and 
had  fought  in  several  battles  (so  he  said).  I  always 
doubted  these  tales,   and   I   still   think   Louis's  loose, 

306 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

bulging  trousers  and  the  tassel  of  his  red  cap  were  only 
seen  from  behind. 

It  was  as  good  as  a  play  to  hear  Louis's  tragic  account 
of  yesterday,  and  it  made  your  hair  stand  on  end  when 
he  recounted  how  he  had  been  stopped  in  the  Rue  de 
Castiglione,  how  two  fiery  Communards  had  entered 
the  coupe  and  ordered  him  to  drive  to  the  H6tel  de  Ville, 
where  Felix  Pyat  had  mounted  the  carriage.  What 
must  his  account  have  been  in  the  kitchen? 

However,  the  principal  thing  was  that  the  harassed 
peas  were  safe  in  the  kitchen  and  in  time  to  be  cooked 
and  figure  on  the  menu  as  legumes  {les  petits  pots). 

Our  guests'  faces  beamed  with  satisfaction  at  the  idea 
of  these  primeurs,  and  evidently  anticipated  great  joy 
in  eating  them;  but  after  they  had  tasted  them  they 
laid  down  their  forks  and  .  .  .  meditated!  The  servant 
removed  the  plates  with  their  primeurs,  wondering  how 
such  wanton  capriciousness  could  exist  in  this  primeur- 
less  Paris.  Only  Mr.  Moulton  ate  them  to  the  last  pea. 
We — the  initiated — knew  where  the  peculiar  taste  of 
soap,  tooth-wash,  perfume,  etc.,  came  from!  The  peas 
descended  to  the  kitchen,  and  ascended  again  un- 
touched to  the  hothouse,  where  they  finished  their  wild 
and  varied  career.  If  they  could  have  spoken,  what 
tales  they  could  have  told!  They  had  displaced  the 
German  Army,  they  had  aided  and  abetted  the  cause 
of  the  Commune,  and  they  had  cost  their  bringer  untold 
sums  in  pourboires,  in  order  to  furnish  a  few  forkfuls 
for  Mr.  Moulton  and  a  gala  supper  for  the  hens. 

We  had  an  excellent  dinner :  a  potage  printanier  (from 
cans),  canned  lobster,  corned  beef  (canned),  and  some 
chickens  who  had  known  many  sad  months  in  the  con- 

307 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

servatory.  An  ice  concoted  from  different  things,  and 
named  on  the  menu  glace  aux  fruits,  completed  this 
Jestin  de  Balthazar. 

Mr.  Moulton  was  obHged  to  don  the  obnoxious  dress- 
coat,  laid  away  during  the  siege  in  camphor,  and  smell- 
ing greatly  of  the  same.  He  held  in  his  hand  La  Gazette 
Officielle.  The  same  shudder  ran  through  us  all.  It  was 
to  be  read  to  us  after  dinner !  Coffee  was  served  in  the 
ballroom,  which  was  dimly  Hghted. 

Would  it  not  be  too  trying  for  an  old  gentleman's 
eyes  to  read  the  fine  print  of  the  Gazette?  Alas!  no. 
Mr.  Moidton's  eyes  were  not  the  kind  that  recoiled  from 
anything  so  trivial  as  light  or  darkness;  and  hardly  had 
we  finished  our  coffee  than  out  came  the  Gazette.  We 
all  listened,  apparently;  some  dozed,  some  kept  awake 
out  of  politeness  or  stupefaction;  Mademoiselle  Wis- 
sembourg,  without  any  compunction,  resigned  herself  to 
slumber,  as  she  had  done  for  the  last  twenty-five  years. 

Delsarte  squirmed  with  agony  as  he  heard  the  French 
language,  and  murmured  to  himself  that  he  had  lived 
in  vain.  What  had  served  all  his  art,  his  profound 
diagnosis  of  voice-inflections,  his  diagrams  on  the  wall, 
the  art  of  enunciation,  and  so  forth?  He  realized,  for 
the  first  time,  what  his  graceful  language  could  become 
nel  hocca  Americana! 

Delsarte's  idea  of  evening-dress  was  worthy  of  notice. 
He  wore  trousers  of  the  workman  type,  made  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  Philippe,  very  large  about  the  hips,  taper- 
ing down  to  the  ankles;  a  flowing  redingote,  dating 
from  the  same  reign,  shaped  in  order  to  fit  over  the 
voluminous  trousers;  a  fancy  velvet  waistcoat  and  a 
huge  tie  bulging  over  his  shirt-front  (if  he  had  a  shirt- 

308 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

front,  which  I  doubt).  He  asked  permission  to  keep 
on  his  calotte,  which  I  fancy  had  not  left  his  skull  since 
the  Revolution  of  1848. 

Massenet,  who  had  come  in  from  the  country  for  the 
day  to  confer  with  his  editor,  received  our  invitation 
just  in  time  to  dress  and  join  us.  After  the  Gazette  we 
awoke  to  life,  and  Massenet  played  some  of  the  *  *  Po^me 
de  Souvenir,"  which  he  has  dedicated  to  me  (I  hope 
I  can  do  it  justice).  What  a  genius  he  is!  Massenet 
always  calls  Auber  le  Maitre,  and  Auber  calls  him  le 
cher  enfant. 

Auber  also  played  some  of  his  melodies  with  his  dear, 
wiry  old  fingers,  and  while  he  was  at  one  piano  Massenet 
put  himself  at  the  other  (we  have  two  in  the  ballroom), 
and  improvised  an  enchanting  accompaniment.  I  wished 
they  could  have  gone  on  forever. 

Who  would  have  believed  that,  in  the  enjoyment  of 
this  beautiful  music,  we  could  have  forgotten  we  were 
in  the  heart  of  poor,  mutilated  Paris — in  the  hands  of 
a  set  of  ruffians  dressed  up  like  soldiers  ?  Bombs,  blood- 
shed, Commune,  and  war  were  phantoms  we  did  not 
think  of. 

Delsarte,  in  the  presence  of  genius,  refused  to  sing 
"II  pleut,  il  pleut,  Bergere,"  but  condescended  to  de- 
claim "La  Cigalle  ayant  chante  tout  I'ete,"  and  did  it 
as  he  alone  can  do  it.  When  he  came  to  the  end  of  the 
fable,  "Eh  bien,  dansez  maintenant,"  he  gave  such  a 
tragic  shake  to  his  head  that  the  voluminous  folds  of 
his  cravat  became  loosened  and  hung  limply  over  his 
bosom. 

I  sang  the  "Caro  Nome"  of  "Rigoletto,"  with  Mas- 
senet's  accompaniment.     Every   one   seemed   pleased; 

21  309 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

even  Delsarte  went  as  far  as  to  compliment  me  on  the 
expression  of  joy  and  love  depicted  on  my  face  and 
thrown  into  my  voice,  which  was  probably  correct,  ac- 
cording to  diagram  ten  on  his  walls. 

He  now  felt  he  had  not  lived  in  vain. 

It  being  almost  midnight,  our  guests  took  their  de- 
parture. 

There  were  only  two  carriages  before  the  door,  Mr. 
Washburn's  and  Auber's.  Mr.  Washburn  took  charge 
of  the  now  very  sleepy  Delsarte,  who  declaimed  a  sepul- 
chral bonsoir  and  disappeared,  his  redingote  waving  in 
the  air. 

The  maitre  took  the  cher  enfant,  or  rather  the  cher  en- 
fant led  the  maitre  out  of  the  salon.  The  family  retired 
to  rest.  The  Gazette  Officielle  had  long  since  vanished 
with  its  master,  and  was  no  doubt  being  perused  in 
the  privacy  of  the  boudoir  above,  the  odious  dress-coat 
and  pumps  replaced  by  robe  de  chambre  and  slippers. 
Henry  said  the  next  morning  he  had  had  a  bad  night ;  .  .  . 
he  had  dreamt  that  the  whole  German  army  was  wait- 
ing outside  of  Paris,  shelling  the  town  with  peas, 

April  I,  i8yi. 

Beaumont  wished  to  accompany  us  to  the  ambulance 
to-day,  thinking  that  he  might  get  an  idea  for  a  sketch ; 
but,  though  he  had  his  album  and  pencils  with  him,  he 
did  not  accomplish  much. 

We  sat  by  the  bedside  of  the  German  officer,  and 
Beaumont  made  a  drawing  of  him.  The  officer  said  in  a 
low  tone  to  me,  'Ts  that  the  famous  artist  Beaumont?" 

I  replied  that  it  was. 

310 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"I  am  so  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  to  see  him,  as 
I  have  heard  so  much  of  him,  and  have  seen  a  great  many 
of  his  pictures  in  Germany." 

This  I  repeated  to  Beaumont,  and  it  seemed  to  please 
him  very  much. 

When  we  left,  Beaumont  said  to  him,  showing  him  the 
sketch,  "Would  you  like  this?" 

The  officer  answered  in  the  most  perfect  French,  "I 
shall  always  keep  it  as  a  precious  souvenir";  and  added, 
"May  I  not  have  a  sketch  of  my  nurse?"  (meaning  me). 

Beaumont  thought  that  it  was  rather  presuming  on  the 
part  of  the  officer  to  ask  for  it,  and  seemed  annoyed. 
However,  he  made  a  hasty  drawing  and  gave  it  to  him, 
saying  in  his  blunt  way,  "I  hope  this  will  please  you." 
The  officer  thanked  him  profusely,  and  we  left.  Turn- 
ing to  me  he  said:  "I  have  not  profited  much  by  this 
visit.     I  have  given,  but  not  taken  anything  away." 

"But  the  experience,"  I  ventured  to  say. 

"Oh  yes,  the  experience;    but  that  I  did  not  need." 

In  the  evening  we  had  one  of  our  drowsy  games  of 

whist,  made  up  of  Countess  B ,  our  neighbor  opposite, 

brought  across  the  street  in  her  sedan-chair  (she  never 
walks),  Mr.  Moulton,  myself,  and  Beaumont  making  the 
sleepy  fourth.  Neither  of  our  guests  speaks  English 
with  anything  like  facility,  but  they  make  frantic  efforts 
to  carry  on  the  game  in  English,  as  Mr.  Moulton  has 
never  learned  the  game  in  French  and  only  uses  English 
terms. 

Mr.  Moulton  always  plays  with  Countess  B ,  and 

I  always  play  with  Beaumont ;  we  never  change  partners. 

This  is  the  kind  of  game  we  play : 

It  takes  Beaumont  a  very  long  time  to  arrange  his 

311 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

cards,  which  he  does  in  a  unique  way,  being  goaded  on 
by  Mr.  Moulton's  impatient  "Well!"  He  picks  out  all 
the  cards  of  one  suit  and  he  lays  them  downward  on  the 
table  in  a  pile;  then  he  gathers  them  up  and  puts  them 
between  the  third  and  fourth  fingers  of  his  left  hand. 
With  the  next  suit  he  does  likewise,  placing  them  be- 
tween the  second  and  third  fingers,  and  so  on,  until  the 
grand  finale,  when  the  fingers  loosen  and  the  cards 
amalgamate.  During  this  process  his  cards  fall  every 
few  minutes  on  the  floor,  occasioning  much  delay,  as 
they  have  all  to  be  arranged  again. 

It  is  my  deal ;  I  turn  up  a  heart.  The  Countess  is  on 
my  left.  We  wait  with  impatience  for  her  to  play,  but 
she  seems  only  to  be  contemplating  her  cards. 

"Well!"  says  Mr.  Moulton,  impatiently. 

We  all  say  in  unison,  "Your  play.  Countess!" 

The  Countess:  "Oh,  what  dreadful  cards!  I  can 
never  play.     Oh,"  with  a  sigh,  "how  dreadful!" 

We  are  all  very  sorry  for  her.  She  has  evidently 
wretched  cards. 

Long  pause.     "Your  turn.  Countess!"  we  all  cry. 

"What  are  trumps?"  she  asks. 

We  show  her  the  trump  card  on  the  table  and  say 
together,  "Hearts." 

Another  long  pause. 

She  arranges  her  cards  deliberately  and  then  shuts 
them  up  like  a  fan. 

"Your  play,  partner,"  says  Mr.  Moulton,  tired  out 
with  waiting. 

With  a  dismal  wail,  and  looking  about  for  sympathy, 
she  plays  the  ace  of  clubs. 

Mr.  Moulton  gathers  up  the  trick, 

31? 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

She  has  no  idea  that  she  has  taken  anything,  but  is 
quietly  adjusting  her  cards  again. 

"Your  turn,  Countess!" 

"What,  my  turn  again?"  She  expresses  the  greatest 
surprise. 

She:  "What  dreadful  cards!     Indeed,  I  cannot  play." 

Poor  thing !  That  was  probably  her  only  good  card, 
and  we  expected  her  next  would  be  the  two  of  spades. 
But  no.  She  pulls  out,  with  the  air  of  a  martyr,  the 
ace  of  spades. 

Mr.  Moulton:   "Well!  that's  not  so  bad." 

Great  astonishment  on  her  part.  She  can't  believe 
that  she  has  actually  taken  a  trick.  She  had  hoped 
some  one  else  would  have  played. 

A  long,  fidgety  silence  follows. 

All:  "Your  play,  Countess!"  She  plays  the  queen  of 
hearts. 

This  has  no  success,  as  I  take  it  with  my  king. 

Mr.  Moulton:    "Why  did  you  play  trumps?" 

She:  "Oh!  was  that  trumps?  I  must  take  it  back. 
Pray,  let  me  take  it  back." 

We  all  recover  our  cards.  (My  partner  takes  this 
occasion  to  drop  some  of  his  on  the  floor.  He  picks 
them  up  and  arranges  them  again  in  order.) 

"Your  turn.  Countess!"  we  cry,  exhausted. 

She :  * '  What,  again !  Why  does  some  one  else  not  play  ?" 

Then  out  comes  the  ace  of  diamonds. 

Some  one  said,  "You  have  all  the  aces." 

She:   "Oh!  not  all;   I  have  not  the  ace  of  hearts." 

Her  partner,  aghast,  begs  her  not  to  tell  us  what  her 
other  cards  are,  and  so  the  game  proceeds  to  the  bitter 
end. 

313 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

There  were  other  moments  funny  beyond  words, 
especially  when  Mr.  Beaumont's  English  fails  to  cope 
with  the  situation  and  he  will  try  to  discuss  the  points 
where  the  Countess  has  failed.  He  says,  ' '  Did  you  not 
see  he  put  his  king  on  your  spade  ace-spot?"  and, 
*' Madame,  you  played  the  third  of  spades."  And  when 
we  count  honors,  Beaumont  will  cover  the  table  with 
his  great  elbows  and  enumerate  his:  "I  had  the  ass, 
the  knight,  and  the  dame." 

I  heard  a  suppressed  chuckle  from  my  father-in-law, 
and  seemed  to  see  a  vision  of  Don  Quixote  and  Sancho 
Panza  pass  before  me. 

24th  of  April. 

Dear  Mama, — ^Auber  sent  a  note  early  this  morning 
by  his  coachman  to  ask  me  to  lunch  with  him  at  ten- 
thirty  o'clock  (of  course  accompanied  by  Mademoiselle, 
my  aunt,  as  he  calls  her).  The  coachman  says  that  his 
master  is  not  feeling  well  and  longs  to  see  a  friend. 

I  am  proud  to  be  the  friend  he  longs  to  see,  and  was 

only  too  happy  to  accept.     Mademoiselle  W was 

equally  happy,  ready,  as  always,  for  any  excursion  where 
a  good  repast  was  in  view,  and  of  that  we  were  sure,  as 
Auber's  chef  is  renowned,  and  is  so  clever  that,  though 
the  market  is  limited,  he  can  make  something  delicious 
out  of  nothing. 

Louis  appeared  in  a  short  jacket  and  a  straw  hat, 
looking  rather  waggish  and  very  embarrassed  to  present 
himself  in  such  a  costume. 

Driving  through  the  Boulevard  Clichy  and  endless 
out-of-the-way  streets,  we  finally  reached  Auber's  hotel, 
which  is  in  the  Rue  St.  Georges. 

314 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Louis  was  glad  to  find  safety  under  the  porte-cochdre, 
and  to  see  his  bosom  companion,  Auber's  butler,  into 
whose  arms  he  fell  with  joy. 

Auber  came  to  the  door  to  welcome  us,  seeming  most 
grateful  that  we  had  come,  and  led  us  into  the  salon. 
There  is  only  one  way  to  get  into  the  salon,  and  that  is 
either  through  the  dining-room  or  the  bedroom;  we 
went  through  the  bedroom,  as  the  other  was  decked  for 
the  feast. 

I  have  never  seen  Auber  look  so  wretched  and  sad 
as  he  did  to-day;  I  could  hardly  believe  it  was  the  same 
Auber  I  have  always  seen  so  gay  and  full  of  life  and 
spirits. 

I  brought  a  tiny  bunch  of  lilies  of  the  valley,  which 
Louis  had  gathered  in  the  all-producing  hothouse. 

"Merci,  merci,"  he  said.  "Les  fleurs!  C'est  la  vie 
parfumee."  Waiting  for  the  breakfast  to  be  served,  he 
showed  us  about  in  his  apartment.  In  the  salon,  rather 
primly  furnished,  stood  the  grand  piano.  The  book- 
shelves contained  Cherubini's  (his  master)  and  his  own 
operas,  and  his  beloved  Bach.  A  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  covered  with  photographs  and  engravings, 
completed  son  salon  de  gargon. 

The  bedroom  was  also  very  primitive :  his  wooden  bed, 
with  its  traditional  covering  of  bourre;  a  chiffonier  con- 
taining his  curios,  royal  presents,  and  costly  souvenirs; 
his  writing-table;  and  his  old  piano,  born  in  1792,  on 
which  he  composed  all  his  operas. 

The  piano  certainly  looked  very  old;  its  keys  were 
yellow  as  amber,  and  Auber  touched  them  with  tender- 
ness, his  thin,  nervous  fingers,  with  their  well-kept  nails, 
rattling  on  them  like  dice  in  a  box. 

31S 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

He  said:  "Le  piano  est  presqu'aussi  vieux  que  moi. 
Que  de  tracas  nous  avons  eu  ensemble!" 

Breakfast  was  announced,  and  we  three  took  our 
places  at  the  beautifully  arranged  table.  I  wondered 
where  the  butler  had  found  flowers  and  fruit  and  ecre- 
visses.  Mademoiselle  and  I  ate  with  an  astounding 
appetite;  but  Auber,  who  had  not  eaten  a  dejeuner  for 
thirty  years,  contented  himself  with  talking. 

And  talk  he  did,  like  a  person  hungry  and  thirsty  to 
talk.  He  told  us  about  Scribe,  for  whom  he  had  an 
unlimited  admiration.  "I  wish  you  had  known  him," 
he  said;  "he  was  the  greatest  librettist  who  ever  existed. 
I  only  had  to  put  the  words  on  the  piano,  put  on  my 
hat,  and  go  out.  When  I  came  back  the  music  was  all 
written — the  words  had  done  it  alone. "  ("  Je  n'avais  qu'a 
mettre  les  paroles  sur  le  pupitre,  prendre  mon  chapeau 
et  sortir.  Quand  je  revenais  la  musique  etait  toute 
ecrite,  les  paroles  I'avaient  faite  toutes  seules.") 

He  related  incidents  connected  with  his  youth.  His 
father  was  a  banker  very  well  off,  rich  even,  and  had 
destined  Auber  to  be  a  banker,  like  himself;  but  when 
Auber  went  to  London  to  commence  his  clerkship  he 
found  he  had  no  vocation  for  finance,  and  began  to  de- 
vote himself  to  music  and  composition.  He  was  thirty- 
six  years  old  when  he  wrote  his  first  opera.  He  told  us 
that  his  first  ones  were  so  bad  that  he  had  given  them 
to  the  Conservatoire  pour  encourager  les  commengants. 

Breakfast  had  long  since  finished ;  but  dear  old  Au- 
ber rambled  on,  and  Mademoiselle  and  I  sat  Hsten- 
ing. 

He  said  he  was  going  to  leave  all  his  music  to  me 
in  his  will.     I  thanked  him,  and  replied  nothing  would 

316 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

give  me  greater  pleasure  than  to  have  something  which 
had  belonged  to  him. 

"Je  ne  regarde  jamais  mes  partitions  sans  etre  gagne 
par  la  tristesse  et  sans  penser  que  de  morceaux  a  re- 
toucher! En  composant,  je  n'ai  jamais  connu  d'autre 
muse  que  I'ennui." 

"On  ne  le  dirait  pas,"  said  Mademoiselle,  wanting 
to  join  the  conversation.  "Votre  musique  est  si  gaie, 
si  pleine  d'entrain." 

"Vous  trouvez!  Vous  etes  bien  bonne.  Je  ne  sais 
comment  cela  arrive.  II  n'y  a  pas  de  motifs  parmi 
ceux  qu'on  trouve  heureux,  que  je  n'ai  pas  ecrit  entre 
deux  baillements.  Je  pourrais,"  he  went  on,  "vous 
montrer  tel  passage  ou  ma  plume  a  fait  un  long  zigzag 
parce  que  mes  yeux  se  sont  fermes  et  ma  tete  tombait  sur 
la  partition.  On  dirait,  n'est  ce  pas?  qu'il  y  a  dessom- 
nambules  lucides." 

We  thought  Auber  seemed  very  fatigued,  and  we  soon 
left  him,  driving  back  the  same  way  we  came,  and 
reached  home  without  any  adventures. 

7th  of  May. 

I  received  this  morning,  by  a  mysterious  messenger, 
a  curious  document;  it  looks  like  a  series  of  carriage- 
wheels,  but  it  is  a  cipher  from  Prince  Mettemich,  who 
is  in  Bordeaux,  and  is  dated  the  ist  of  May.  It  took 
me  a  long  time  to  puzzle  it  out:  "Vous  conseille  de  par- 
tir;  pire  viendra.  Pauline  a  Vienne;  moi  triste  et  tour- 
mente." 

Very  good  advice,  but  rather  difficult  to  follow  now. 

Never  has  Paris  led  such  a  sober  life;  there  is  no 
noise  in  the  almost  empty  and  dimly  lighted  streets; 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

there  are  no  drunkards,  and,  strange  to  say,  one  hears 
of  no  thefts.  There  are,  I  beUeve,  one  or  two  small 
theaters  open,  most  of  the  small  cafes,  and  a  great  many 
wine-shops.  The  soldiers  slink  about,  looking  ashamed 
of  their  shabby  uniforms  and  ragged  appearance. 

Thiers  has  done  all  in  his  power  to  conciliate  the  dif- 
ferent parties,  but  has  now  concluded  that  Paris  must 
be  conquered  by  the  troops  of  Versailles.  Every  day 
there  comes  more  disturbing  news.  How  will  it  all 
end?  When  shall  we  get  out  of  this  muddle?  En 
attendant,  we  live  in  a  continual  fright. 

A  note  came  yesterday  from  Mr.  Washburn  (I  don't 
know  if  he  is  in  Paris  or  not).  He  writes:  "Nothing 
could  be  worse  than  the  present  state  of  affairs.  I  wish 
you  were  out  of  Paris;   hope  you  are  well,"  etc. 

If  we  could  get  a  message  to  him,  we  would  tell  him 
that  we  are  well  enough,  and  have  enough  to  eat;  that 
Mademoiselle  Wissembourg  and  I  tremble  all  day;  but 
that  Mr.  Moulton  has  not  enjoyed  himself  so  much 
since  the  last  revolution. 

Slippers  all  day  if  he  likes. 

May  8th. 

Though  I  have  so  much  time  on  my  hands  (I  never 
have  had  so  much),  I  really  have  not  the  heart  to  write 
of  all  the  horrors  we  hear  of  and  the  anxieties  of 
our  daily  life.  Besides,  you  will  probably  have  heard, 
through  unprejudiced  newspapers,  all  that  is  happening 
here,  and  know  the  true  facts  before  this  dismal  letter 
reaches  you.  And  who  knows  if  letters  leave  Paris 
regularly  in  the  chaotic  state  of  disorder  and  danger  we 
are  now  in? 

318 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  cannot  write  history,  because  I  am  living  in  it.  I 
can  only  tell  you  the  news  which  Louis  gathers  when 
he  does  his  errands,  coming  home  with  the  wildest  tales, 
of  which  we  can  only  believe  the  half. 

I  have  read  somewhere  that  some  one  lived  "in  a 
dead  white  dawn  of  thought."  I  have  not  the  slightest 
idea  what  "a  dead  white  dawn  of  thought"  can  be  (I 
have  so  little  imagination) ;  but  whatever  it  is,  I  feel 
as  if  I  was  living  in  it  now.  I  don't  remember  in  all  my 
life  to  have  stagnated  like  this. 

We  are  glad  Mrs.  Moulton  left  Paris  when  she  did, 
and  is  now  in  a  bourne  of  safety  at  Dinard,  taking  my 
place  with  the  children  while  I  take  hers  in  the  Rue  de 
Courcelles. 

This  is  no  sacrifice  on  my  part;  the  existence  we  are 
leading  now  interests  me  intensely,  being  so  utterly 
different  from  anything  I  have  ever  known,  and  I  do 
not  regret  having  this  little  glimpse  into  the  unknown. 

I  cannot  go  to  the  ambulances,  as  we  (Mademoiselle 
and  I)  do  not  dare  to  walk,  and  driving  is  out  of  the 
question. 

I  have  not  seen  Auber  for  many  days;  Beaumont  has 
not  been  here  either,  and  we  do  not  know  where  he  is. 

They  still  go  on  issuing  some  official  newspapers, 
though  whether  what  they  contain  is  true,  or  how  far 
the  imaginations  of  the  editors  have  lured  them  into 
the  paths  of  fiction,  we  cannot  tell.  If  we  live  through 
this  debdcle  I  count  on  history  to  tell  us  what  we  really 
have  been  living  through.  However,  truth  or  fiction, 
I  am  thankful  that  we  have  the  newspapers,  for  how 
would  I  ever  have  a  moment's  sleep  if  I  did  not  listen 
to  Mr.  Moulton's  intoning  the  Moniteur  and  the  Journal 

319 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

des  Dehats  (the  Figaro  has  been  suppressed)  to  us,  and 
we  did  not  have  our  three-handed  drowsy  whist  to  doze 
over. 

May  gih. 

While  we  were  at  breakfast  this  morning  the  servant 
came  rushing  in,  pale  and  trembhng,  and  announced  to 
us  that  pillage  had  commenced  in  the  Boulevard  Hauss- 
mann,  just  around  the  corner,  and  that  the  mob  was 
coming  toward  our  house.  We  flew  to  the  window,  and, 
sure  enough,  there  we  saw  a  mass  of  soldiers  collected 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street,  in  front  of  the  Princess 
Mathilde's  palace,  gesticulating  and  pointing  over  at  us. 

We  thought  our  last  day  had  come;  certainly  it  did 
look  Hke  a  crisis  of  some  kind.  We  gazed  blankly  at 
one  another.  Mademoiselle  disappeared,  to  seek  refuge, 
I  fancy,  between  the  mattresses  of  her  bed,  and  the 
smile  and  the  urbane  language  with  which  she  was  pre- 
pared to  face  this  emergency  (so  often  predicted  by  her) 
disappeared  with  her. 

The  mob  crossed  the  street,  howling  and  screaming, 
and  on  finding  the  gate  locked  began  to  shake  it.  The 
frightened  concierge,  already  barricaded  in  his  lodge, 
took  care  not  to  show  himself,  which  infuriated  the 
riotous  crowd  to  such  an  extent  that  they  yelled  at  the 
top  of  their  lungs  to  have  the  gate  opened. 

Mr.  Moulton  sent  a  scared  servant  to  order  the  still 
invisible  concierge  to  open  not  only  one  gate,  but  all 
three.  He  obeyed,  trembling  and  quaking  with  fear. 
The  Communists  rushed  into  the  courtyard,  and  were 
about  to  seize  the  unhappy  concierge,  when  Mr.  Moulton, 
seeing  that  no  one  else  had  the  courage  to  come  forward, 

320 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

went  himself,  like  the  true  American  he  is,  .  .  .  out  on  to 
the  perron,  and  I  went  with  him.  His  first  words  (in 
pure  Angle-Saxon),  "Qu'est-ce  que  vous  voolly?"  made 
the  assembled  crowd  giggle. 

The  leader  pushed  forward,  and,  presenting  a  paper 
with  the  official  seal  of  the  Comite  de  Transport,  demand- 
ed, in  the  name  of  the  Commune  {requisitioned,  they 
call  it),  everything  we  had  in  the  way  of  animals. 

Mr.  Moulton  took  the  paper,  deliberately  adjusted 
his  spectacles,  and,  having  read  it  very  leisurely  (I 
wondered  how  those  fiery  creatures  had  the  forbearance 
to  stay  quiet,  but  they  did;  I  think  they  were  hypno- 
tized by  my  father-in-law's  coolness),  he  said,  in  his 
weird  French,  "Vous  voolly  nos  animaux!"  which 
sounded  like  nos  animose.  The  crowd  grinned  with 
delight.  His  French  saved  the  situation.  I  felt  that 
they  would  not  do  us  any  great  harm  now. 

Mr.  Moulton  fumbled  in  his  pocket,  and,  judging 
from  the  time  he  took  and  the  depths  into  which  he 
dived,  one  would  have  thought  he  was  going  to  bring 
out  corruption  enough  to  bribe  the  whole  French  nation. 
But  he  only  produced  a  gold  piece,  which  he  flourished 
in  front  of  the  spokesman,  and  asked  if  money  would  be 
any  inducement  to  leave  us  les  animose.  But  the  not- 
to-be-bribed  Communard  put  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
and  said,  in  a  tone  worthy  of  Delsarte,  "Nous  sommes 
des  honnetes  gens,  Monsieur,"  at  which  my  father-in- 
law  permitted  himself  to  smile.   I  thought  him  very  brave. 

Raising  his  voice  to  an  unusually  high  pitch,  he  cried, 
"Je  ne  peux  pas  vous  refiuser  le  cheval,  mais  [the  pitch 
became  higher]  je  refiuse  le  vache  (I  cannot  refuse  to 
give  you  the  horse;   but  I  refuse  the  cow)."  ■ 

321 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  men  before  us  were  convulsed  with  laughter. 
Then  Mr.  Moulton  gave  the  order  to  bring  out  the  horse, 
but  not  the  cow.  The  ofricial  turned  to  me.  "Madame," 
he  said,  "you  have  a  cow,  and  my  orders  are  to  take  all 
your  animals.     Please  send  for  the  cow." 

"It  is  true,  Monsieur,"  I  answered,  with  a  gentle  smile 
(like  the  one  reposing  under  the  mattress),  "that  we 
have  a  cow;  but  we  have  the  permission  from  your 
Government  to  keep  it." 

"Which  government?"  he  asked. 

"The  French  Government.     Is  that  not  yours?" 

The  man  could  not  find  anything  to  answer,  and 
turned  away  mumbling,  "Comme  vous  voulez,"  which 
applied  to  nothing  at  all,  and  addressed  Mr.  Moulton 
again,  "Nous  avons  des  ordres,  Monsieur!"  But  Mr. 
Moulton  interrupted  him,  "Ca  m'est  egal,  je  refiuse  le 
vache." 

Some  one  in  the  crowd  called  out,  "Gardez  le  vache!" 
This  was  received  with  a  burst  of  applause.  I  think 
that  these  men,  rough  as  they  were,  could  not  but 
admire  the  plucky  old  gentleman  who  stood  there  sa 
calmly  looking  at  them  over  his  spectacles.  The  ser- 
vants were  all  huddled  together  behind  the  glass  win- 
dows in  the  antichambre,  scared  out  of  their  wits,  while 
the  terrible  Communards  were  choking  with  laughter. 

It  was  heart-rending  to  see  poor  Louis's  grief  w^hen  he 
led  out  the  dear,  gentle  horse  we  loved  so  fondly;  the 
tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  as  they  did  down  mine, 
and  I  think  a  great  many  of  the  ruffians  around  us  had 
a  tear  of  sympathy  for  our  sorrow,  for  the  merriment  of 
the  few  moments  before  faded  suddenly  from  their  pale 
and  haggard  faces. 

322 


MiNisrins 
L'AGRICULTORE 

XT 

DU  COMMERCE. 


MUCTI0.1 

DE  L'AGRICULTURE. 


Monsieur       yPli)  ti-.^^^^^^  / ~~ 

demearantiParis.rue   J^  CiHi^uJ^j    y/^ 

est  autoris^  a  conserverV^  vache<>  laitidr^  i 
d'apr^s  sa  declaration  constatant  qu'il  a  le  fourrage 
suflisant  pour  1  -c^  nourrir  pendant  un  mois  au 


Paris,  le //novembre  1870. 


■% 


Pdr  autorisation : 


Le  Chef  du  i"  bureau 
de  la  direction  de  I' Agriculture , 


/^^ 


^tC 


FACSIMILE   OF   THE   GOVERNMENT   PERMIT   TO    KEEP  COWS 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

When  Louis  leaned  his  kind  old  face  against  the  nose 
of  his  companion  of  the  stable  he  sobbed  aloud,  and 
when  he  gave  the  bridle  over  to  the  man  who  was  to 
take  the  horse  away  he  moaned  an  adieu,  saying,  "Be 
good  to  her!" 

I  went  down  the  steps  of  the  perron  (the  men  politely 
making  way  for  me)  and  kissed  my  poor  darling  Medje, 
and  passed  my  hand  over  her  soft  neck  before  she  left 
us  for  her  unknown  fate.  She  seemed  to  understand 
our  sorrow,  for,  as  she  was  being  led  out  of  the  court- 
yard, she  turned  her  head  toward  us  with  a  patient, 
inquiring  look,  as  if  to  say,  "What  does  it  all  mean?" 

I  hope  she  will  be  returned  when  "no  longer  needed," 
as  they  promise,  and  Louis  will  have  the  joy  of  seeing 
her  again. 

The  now-subdued  mob  left  us,  filing  out  quietly 
through  the  gates;  they  had  come  in  like  roaring  lions, 
but  went  out  like  the  meekest  of  lambs. 

We  returned  sorrowfully  to  the  salon.  I  was  so 
unstrung  that  Mademoiselle,  who  in  the  meantime  had 
returned,  administered  a  cup  of  camomile  tea  to  restore 
my  nerves. 

After  the  fright  caused  by  this  last  requisitionnement, 
two  of  the  servants  thought  it  expedient  to  find  safer 
quarters  in  the  center  of  Paris,  and  to  live  in  seclusion, 
rather  than  run  the  risk  of  being  requisitioned  them- 
selves. 

The  forts  Mont  Valerien,  Montrouge,  Vanves,  and 
Issy  keep  up  an  incessant  firing.  We  would  not  be  sur- 
prised if  at  any  moment  a  bomb  reached  us,  but  so  far 
we  have  escaped  this  calamity.  The  "Reds"  are  fight- 
ing all  around  Paris  with  more  or  less  success.     If  one 

323 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

could  believe  what  is  written  in  the  Le  Journal  de  la 
Commune,  one  would  say  they  were  triumphant  all 
along  the  line.  We  have  just  heard  that  General 
Bergeret  has  been  arrested;  no  one  knows  why,  except 
that  he  did  not  succeed  in  his  last  sortie,  and  had  there- 
by displeased  his  colleagues  generally.  It  does  not  take 
more  than  that  to  arrest  people  in  these  days. 

The  good  Archbishop  of  Paris  (Darboy),  the  cure  of 
La  Madeleine  (Monseigneur  Duguerry),  also  President 
Bonjean,  and  the  others  who  were  arrested  on  the 
loth  of  May,  have  been  kept  in  Mazas  Prison  ever  since. 
I  saw  a  letter  of  marvelous  forbearance  and  resignation, 
written  by  the  Archbishop  to  the  Sisters  of  the  St. 
Augustine  Convent ;  and  the  beloved  cure  of  the  Made- 
leine beseeches  people  to  pray  for  order  to  be  restored. 
Poor  martyrs!  I  hope  that  their  prison  will  not  prove 
to  be  the  antechamber  of  the  scaffold;  as  Rochefort 
says,  "Mazas  est  I'antichambre  de  I'echafaud." 

It  appears  that  Felix  Pyat  really  did  give  his  demis- 
sion as  a  member  of  the  Commune,  but  his  colleagues 
would  not  accept  it. 

loth  May. — While  Mr.  Moulton  was  reading  this 
morning's  news  to  us  we  were  startled  by  a  terrible  crash. 
We  were  paralyzed  with  terror,  and  for  a  moment 
speechless,  fearing  that  all  we  had  dreaded  was  about 
to  be  realized.  After  somewhat  recovering  our  equilib- 
rium, we  sent  for  Louis  to  find  out  what  dreadful  thing 
had  happened. 

Louis  appeared  with  the  concierge,  both  trembling 
from  head  to  foot,  and  announced  that  a  portion  of  a 
bomb  which  had  fallen  and  exploded  near  us  had  come 
through  the  roof,  shattering  many  windows  and  causing 

324 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

great  havoc.  On  further  examination  of  the  disaster 
we  were  greatly  reheved  to  hear  that  it  was  only  a  ques- 
tion of  a  damaged  roof,  windows,  and  masonry.  No 
one  was  killed  or  even  wounded;  but  all  were  so  com- 
pletely frightened  that  no  one  dares  to  sleep  on  the 
upper  floor.  Consequently  we  have  moved  down  on 
the  drawing-room  floor,  and  have  abandoned  the  upper 
stories  to  future  bombs.  Mr.  Moulton  is  located  in  the 
salon;  Mademoiselle  has  taken  the  salon  jaune,  and  I 
the  boudoir.  Louis  has  improvised  a  bedroom  in  the 
small  dining-room,  that  he  may  be  near  us  at  night  if 
we  should  need  him.  The  other  servants  sleep  in  the 
basement. 

Our  family  is  now  reduced  to  Mr.  Moulton,  Made- 
moiselle, Louis,  my  maid,  and  the  cook.  Louis  has 
proved  himself  invaluable.  He  is  the  man  of  all  work. 
After  milking  the  cow  and  doing  his  farming  (in  the 
conservatory)  in  the  early  morning,  he  waits  at  table, 
does  errands,  and  gathers  whatever  news  there  is  in 
the  neighborhood,  helps  in  the  kitchen,  and  aids  Mr. 
Moulton  in  his  toilet  and  into  his  slippers.  He  is  never 
tired;  is  always  ready,  early  in  the  morning  and  late 
at  night,  to  do  anything  required  of  him.  He  fills  all 
gaps. 

The  untiring  hens  have  made  their  nests  in  obscure 
comers  in  the  hothouse  and  dream  serenely  of  future 
posterity,  while  the  one  cock  scratches  for  tired  worms 
to  provide  for  their  repasts.  I  go  every  morning  after 
breakfast  with  a  little  offering  of  scraps  to  add  to  their 
meager  meals. 

It  is  one  of  my  few  occupations. 

Louis  has  succeeded  in  some  of  his  agricultural  schemes, 

22  325 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  has  raised  mushrooms,  radishes,  and  watercresses, 
which  appear  quite  a  luxury  in  contrast  to  our  usual 
canned  things,  and  almost  make  us  forget  other  priva- 
tions. 

This  farming  of  Louis's  in  the  hothouse  goes  to  prove 
how  an  unnecessary  palm-garden  in  time  of  peace  can 
be  transformed  into  a  useful  kitchen  garden  in  time  of 
war.  Louis  expends  the  same  energy  and  water  that 
he  used  in  washing  his  carriages,  much  to  the  detriment 
of  the  once  fine  greenhouse. 

The  days  are  very  monotonous.  I  never  imagined 
a  day  could  have  so  many  hours.  I,  who  have  always 
been  over-busy,  and  have  never  found  the  days  long 
enough  to  do  all  I  wanted  to  do,  pass  the  most  forlorn 
hours  listening  and  waiting  and  wondering  what  will 
happen  next.  I  wait  and  wait  all  through  the  sleepless 
nights.  I  am  so  nervous  I  cannot  sleep.  I  do  not  even 
take  off  my  clothes. 

I  have  my  writing-table  put  in  the  ball-room,  and  here 
I  sit  and  write  these  sad  letters  to  you.  I  play  the  piano ; 
but  I  have  not  the  heart  to  sing,  as  you  may  imagine. 

We  know  that  there  are  many  tragedies  going  on 
about  us,  and  we  hear,  through  Louis,  awful  things; 
but  we  only  believe  the  half  of  what  he  tells  us. 

May  nth. 

The  Minister  of  Finance  has  spent  in  a  month  twenty- 
six  millions  for  the  war  expenses  alone. 

My  two  friends,  Pascal  Grousset  and  (Rascal)  Rigault, 
spent  for  their  menus  plaisirs  nearly  half  a  million, 
whereas  Jourde,  who  is  Minister  of  Finance,  and  could 

326 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

take  all  the  money  he  Hked  from  the  banks,  Hves  in  the 
same  modest  apartment,  and  his  wife  still  continues 
to  take  in  washing  as  of  old,  showing  that  he,  at  least, 
is  honest  among  thieves. 

Grousset's  appeal  to  the  large  cities  of  France  is  very- 
theatrical .  He  reproaches  them  with  their  lukewarm- 
ness  and  their  platonic  sympathy,  and  calls  them  aux 
armes,  as  in  the  "Marseillaise." 

We  had  a  very  sad  experience  yesterday.  At  seven 
o'clock  the  concierge  was  awakened  from  his  slumbers, 
which  (if  one  can  judge  from  the  repeated  efforts  at  his 
bell  of  persons  who  come  before  breakfast)  must  be 
of  the  sweetest  and  most  profound  nature. 

On  cautiously  peeping  out,  he  saw  a  poor  fellow  lean- 
ing against  the  gate  in  a  seemingly  exhausted  condition; 
he  had  been  wounded,  and  begged  to  be  allowed  to  come 
inside  our  courtyard.  The  concierge,  who  thinks  it 
wise  to  be  prudent,  consulted  with  Louis;  but  neither 
dared  do  anything  until  Mr.  Moulton  had  given  the 
necessary  orders.  Louis  ran  about  to  wake  up  the  fam- 
ily, and  Mr.  Moulton  told  the  porter  to  take  the  man 
directly  to  the  stables  and  to  go  for  a  doctor.  The 
wounded  man  begged  to  see  a  priest,  and  Louis  was 
despatched  to  bring  one.  Securing  a  doctor  seemed  to 
be  a  great  undertaking.  The  concierge  had  had  cramps 
in  the  night  (so  he  said),  which  would  necessitate  his 
remaining  at  home,  and  made  so  many  excuses  that  Mr. 
Moulton  lost  patience  and  declared  he  would  go  him- 
self; but  this  I  would  not  hear  of  his  doing  alone,  and 
insisted  upon  going  with  him.  Mademoiselle,  issuing 
from  her  room,  appeared  in  her  lilac  dressing-gown, 
holding  a  pocket-handkerchief  in  one  hand  and  a  smell- 

327 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ing-bottle  to  her  nose  with  the  other.  She  was  told  to 
keep  watch  over  the  invalid  while  we  were  absent.  Mr. 
Moulton  and  I  walked  to  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore,  to  our 
apothecary,  who  gave  us  the  name  of  the  nearest  doc- 
tor. It  was  not  pleasant,  to  say  the  least,  to  be  in  the 
streets.  We  were  in  the  habit  of  hearing  bombs  and 
shells,  so  that  was  no  novelty ;  but  to  see  them  whizzing 
over  our  heads  was  a  new  sensation,  and  not  an  agree- 
able one.  We  found  a  doctor,  a  most  amiable  gentle- 
man, who,  although  he  had  been  up  all  night,  was  quite 
ready  to  follow  us,  and  we  hiuried  back  to  the  Rue  de 
CourceUes,  where  we  found  Mademoiselle  seated  on  a 
water-pail  outside  the  stables  and  looking  the  picture 
of  woe.     Her  idea  of  keeping  vigil! 

The  doctor  made  a  hasty  examination,  and  was  pre- 
paring the  bandages  when  Louis  arrived  with  the  priest. 
I  left  them  and  went  into  the  house  to  make  some  tea, 
which  I  thought  might  be  needed;  but  my  father-in- 
law  came  in  and  said  that  the  man  had  gone  to  sleep. 

Later,  about  two  o'clock,  Louis  told  us  that  all  was 
over;  the  poor  fellow  had  received  the  last  sacraments, 
had  turned  over  on  his  side,  and  had  breathed  his  last. 
We  sent  for  the  ambulance;  but  it  was  five  o'clock  be- 
fore they  took  him  away. 

It  made  us  very  sad  all  day  to  think  that  death  had 
entered  our  gates. 

ijih  May. — Thiers's  house  in  the  Rue  St.  Georges  was 
pillaged  to-day  by  the  mob,  who  howled  like  madmen 
and  hurled  all  sorts  of  curses  and  maledictions  on  luck- 
less Thiers,  who  has  done  nothing  wrong,  and  certainly 
tried  to  do  good. 

Auber,  who  lives  in  the  same  street,  must  have  seen 

328 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  heard  all  that  was  going  on.  How  he  must  have 
suffered ! 

1 6th  May. — The  Column  Vendome  fell  to-day;  they 
have  been  working  some  days  to  undermine  it  at  the 
base  of  the  socle.  Every  one  thought  it  would  make  a 
tremendous  crash,  but  it  did  not;  it  fell  just  where  they 
intended  it  to  fall,  toward  the  Rue  de  la  Paix,  on  some 
fagots  placed  to  receive  it.  They  were  a  long  time  pull- 
ing at  it;  three  or  four  pulleys,  and  as  many  ropes,  and 
twenty  men  tugging  with  all  their  might — et  voila.  The 
figure  that  replaced  the  Little  Corporal  (which  is  safe 
somewhere  in  Neuilly)  came  to  earth  in  a  cloud  of  dust, 
and  the  famous  column  lay  broken  in  three  huge  pieces. 

I  inclose  a  ticket  which  Mr.  Lemaire  obtained  some- 
how, and  which,  as  you  see,  permitted  him  to  circulate 
lihrement  in  the  Place  Vendome: 


c^'^liL^^^. 


REPUBLIQUE   FRAKCAISE 

''<?  literle.  E^altte.  Fratetnite  . 


329 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

I  think  it  is  strange  that  Auber  does  not  let  us  hear 
from  him.     I  fear  his  heart  is  broken,  Uke  the  column. 

The  weather  is  heavenly.  The  two  chestnut-trees  in 
our  front  courtyard  are  in  full  flower ;  the  few  plants  in 
the  greenhouse  are  all  putting  out  buds.  Where  shall 
we  be  when  the  buds  become  flowers? 

Last  year  at  this  time  it  was  the  height  of  the  gid- 
diest of  giddy  seasons.  One  can  hardly  believe  it  is  the 
same  Paris. 

My  father-in-law  feels  very  bad  that  I  did  not  leave 
when  I  still  had  the  chance.  So  do  I,  .  .  .  but  now  it  is 
too  late.  I  must  stay  till  the  bitter  end,  and  no  doubt 
the  end  will  be  bitter:  battle,  murder,  and  sudden  death, 
and  all  the  things  we  pray  against  in  the  Litany. 

Dombrowski  has  failed  in  his  sortie  to  St.  Cloud. 

i8th  May. — It  seems  that  the  Communards  wish  all 
France  to  adopt  their  gentle  methods,  and  they  believe 
and  hope  that  Communism  will  reign  supreme  over  the 
country. 

Rigault,  to  prove  what  an  admirable  government 
France  has,  yesterday  issued  the  decree  to  arrest  a  mass 
of  people.  No  one  knows  exactly  why,  except  that  he 
wishes  to  show  how  great  his  power  is.  He  wants  the 
Commune  to  finish  in  fire  and  flame  as  a  funeral  pile. 
I  hope  he  will  be  on  the  top  of  it,  like  Sardanapalus,  and 
suffer  the  most.     Horrible  man! 

I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Mallet  this  morning,  in- 
closing an  invitation  to  assist  at  a  concert  given  by  all 
the  musiques  miliiaires  a  Paris  on  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde, and  offering  a  ticket  for  two  places  on  the  ter- 
race of  the  Tuileries.  The  idea  of  these  creatures  on 
the  brink  of  annihilation,  death,  and  destruction  giving 

330 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

a  concert!     If  it  were  not  so  tragic  it  would  really  be 
laughable. 

Dear  Lady, — I  wish.  I  could  bring  you  this  extraordinary  docu- 
ment de  viva  persona;  but  I  do  not  like  to  leave  the  embassy,  even 
for  a  short  time.  Lascelles  and  I  are  well,  but  very  anxious.  You 
will  notice  that  this  invitation  is  for  the  21st.  Our  friends  evident- 
ly think  we  will  be  pleasantly  attuned  to  music  on  that  day.  They 
are  as  mad  as  March  hares;  they  will  be  asking  us  to  dance  at 
Mazas  next.  .  .  .  Hoping  you  are  not  as  depressed  as  we  are, 

Yours,  E.  Mallet. 

Just  as  I  had  finished  reading  the  above  we  heard  a 
tremendous  explosion.  Louis  said  it  was  VEcole  Mili- 
taire,  which  was  to  be  blown  up  to-day.  What  are  we 
coming  to? 

Louis  and  I  ventured  to  go  up  to  the  third  story,  and 
we  put  our  heads  out  of  one  of  the  small  windows.  We 
saw  the  bombs  flying  over  our  heads  like  sea-gulls.  All 
the  sky  was  dimmed  with  black  smoke,  but  we  could 
not  see  if  anything  was  burning,  though  we  hear  that 
the  Tuileries  is  on  fire  and  all  the  public  buildings  are 
being  set  fire  to. 

An  organized  mob  of  petroleurs  and  pitroleuses  receive 
two  francs  a  day  for  pouring  petroleum  about  and  then 
setting  fire.     How  awful! 

Louis  assures  us  that  they  will  not  come  near  us,  as 
their  only  idea  is  to  destroy  public  property.  My 
father-in-law  says  the  fever  of  destruction  may  seize 
them,  and  they  might  pillage  the  fine  houses  and  set 
fire  to  them.  He  is  having  everything  of  value,  like 
jewels,  silver,  and  his  precious  bric-a-brac,  carried  down 
to  the  cellar,  where  there  is  an  iron  vault,  and  has  showed 
us  all  how  to  open  it  in  case  of  a  disaster. 

331 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

May  2 1st  (Sunday  evening). — The  Versaillais  entered 
Paris  by  the  Point  du  Jour,  led  by  gallant  Gallifet. 

May  2 2d. — Rigault  gave  the  order  that  all  the  hostages 
(otages)  were  to  be  shot.  Rigault  wrote  the  order  him- 
self. It  does  not  bear  any  of  the  fantastic  seals  they 
are  so  fond  of,  and  of  which  they  have  an  incredible 
quantity.  It  has  been  written  on  a  paper  (une  declara- 
tion d' expedition  du  chemin  de  Jer  d' Orleans) .  Probably 
he  was  trying  to  get  away.  It  was  the  last  order  he 
gave,  and  the  last  fuse  to  be  used  to  set  fire  to  the 
funeral  pile. 

This  proclamation,  of  which  I  give  an  exact  copy, 
will  give  you  a  little  idea  of  what  this  horrible  brute  is 
capable  of: 

Floreal,  an  79  [the  way  they  date  things  in  republics].  Fusillez 
I'Archeveque  et  les  otages;  incendiez  les  Tuileries  et  le  Palais  Royal, 
et  repliez-vous  sur  la  rue  Germain-des-Pr^s. 

Procureur  de  la  Commune, 

Ici  tout  va  bien.  Raoul  Rigault. 

In  the  evening  of  the  2 2d  the  victims — forty  of  them 
— the  good  Darboy,  Duguerry,  Bonjean,  and  others — 
were  piled  into  a  transport-wagon  with  only  a  board 
placed  across,  where  they  could  sit,  and  were  taken  to 
the  place  of  execution. 

The  Archbishop  seemed  suffering;  probably  the  pri- 
vations he  had  endured  had  weakened  him.  Bonjean 
said  to  him,  "Lean  on  my  arm,  it  is  that  of  a  good 
friend  and  a  Christian,"  and  added,  "La  religion  d'abord, 
la  justice  ensuite."  As  soon  as  one  name  was  called 
a  door  opened  and  a  prisoner  passed  out — the  Arch- 
bishop went  first;  they  descended  the  dark  and  narrow 
steps  one  by  one.     When  they  were  placed  against  the 

332 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

wall  Bonjean  said,  "Let  us  show  them  how  a  priest  and 
a  magistrate  can  die." 

Rigault  ordered  their  execution  two  hours  after  they 
were  taken ;  and  when  some  one  ventured  a  remonstrance 
he  curtly  replied,  "Nous  ne  faisons  pas  de  la  legalite, 
nous  faisons  de  la  revolution."  Some  ruffian  in  the 
mob  cried  out  the  word  "liberte,"  which  reached  Dar- 
boy's  ears,  and  he  said,  "Do  not  profane  the  word  of 
liberty;  it  belongs  to  us  alone,  because  we  die  for  it 
and  for  our  faith."  This  sainted  man  was  the  first  to 
be  shot.  He  died  instantly;  but  President  Bonjean 
crossed  his  arms  and,  standing  erect,  stared  full  in  the 
faces  of  his  assassins  with  his  brave  eyes  fastened  on 
theirs.  This  seemed  to  have  troubled  them,  for  of  the 
nineteen  balls  they  fired  not  one  touched  his  head — they 
fired  too  low — but  all  his  bones  were  broken.  The  de- 
fiant look  stayed  on  his  face  until  the  coup  de  grdce 
(a  bullet  behind  his  ear)  ended  this  brave  man's  life. 
These  details  are  too  dreadful.  I  will  spare  you,  though 
I  know  many  more  and  worse. 

Dombrowski  had  a  slight  advantage  over  I'Amiraut 
the  other  day,  which  puffed  them  all  up  with  hope; 
but  how  foolish  to  think  that  anything  can  help 
now! 

May  2jd. — Now  they  have  all  lost  their  heads,  and 
are  at  their  wits'  end.  There  are  thirty  thousand  artil- 
lery and  more  cannon  than  they  know  what  to  do 
with. 

Everything  is  in  a  muddle;  you  can  imagine  in  what 
a  fearful  state  of  anxiety  we  live.  The  only  thing  we 
ask  ourselves  now  is,  When  will  the  volcano  begin  to 
pour  out  its  flames  ? 

333 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

If  the  troops  should  come  in  by  the  Arc  de  Triomphe 
and  fight  their  way  through  Paris  by  the  Champs- 
Ely  sees  and  the  Boulevard  there  would  not  be  much 
hope  for  us,  as  we  would  be  just  between  the  two 
fires. 

Alay  2jth. — The  Arc  de  Triomphe  and  the  Champ  de 
Mars  were  captured  to-day,  and  the  fighting  in  the 
streets  has  commenced.  They  are  fighting  like  mad  in 
the  Faubourg  St.  Honore.  When  I  open  the  door  of 
the  vestibule  I  can  hear  the  3'elling  and  screaming  of 
the  rushing  mob;  it  is  dreadful,  the  spluttering  of  the 
fusillades  and  the  guns  overpower  all  other  noises.  We 
hope  deliverance  is  near  at  hand;  but  who  knows  how 
long  before  we  have  peace  and  quiet  again? 

May  28th. — MaclMahon  has  stormed  the  barricades 
and  has  entered  Paris,  taking  fifty  thousand  prisoners. 
Gallifet  has  ordered  thousands  to  be  shot. 

We  are  rescued  from  more  horrors.  Thank  God! 
these  days  of  trembling  and  fear  are  over. 

Pascal  Grousset  was  killed  on  the  barricades.  I  am 
thankful  to  say  that  Raoul  Rigault  has  also  departed  this 
world.  Courbet,  Regnaud,  a  promising  young  painter, 
and  how  many  shall  we  know  of  afterward,  have  been 
shot. 

We  hear  that  Auber  became  quite  crazy  and  wan- 
dered out  on  the  ramparts,  and  was  killed  with  the 
soldiers.  He  deserved  a  better  fate,  my  dear  old  friend ! 
I  am  sure  his  heart  was  broken,  and  that  that  day  we 
breakfasted  with  him  was  not  his  first  but  his  last  jour 
de  bonheur. 

Seventy-two  days  of  Communism  has  cost  France 
850,000,000  francs. 

334 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

DiNARD,  June  i8,  187 1. 

Dear  Mother —Our  peaceful  life  here  is  a  great 
contrast  to  the  bombs  of  poor  dilapidated  Paris.  I  have 
still  the  screams  and  bursting  shells  of  the  Faubourg 
St.  Honor6  in  my  ears. 

When  I  wrote  of  Strakosch's  persisting  in  his  idea  of 
my  singing  in  concerts,  I  did  not  dream  that  I  should 
be  telling  you  that  I  have  succumbed  to  his  tempting 
and  stupendous  proposition.  It  is  true  that  I  have  said 
yes,  and  vogue  la  gaUre! 

And  the  most  curious  thing  is  that  the  whole  family 
sitting  in  council  have  urged  me  to  do  it. 

' '  Why  not  ?"  said  Mr.  Moulton,  making  mental  calcula- 
tions, 

"I  would,  if  I  were  you,"  said  Mrs.  Moulton,  over- 
flowing with  enthusiasm. 

"I  agree,"  said  Charles,  only  seeing  the  fun  of  a  new 

experience. 

"But,"  I  urged,  "I  doubt  if  I  can  stand  on  my  own 
merits.  '  Singing  in  public  as  an  amateur  is  one  thing, 
and  singing  as  an  artist  is  another."  This  wise  saying 
was  scorned  by  the  council. 

I  have  ordered  some  fine  dresses  from  Worth,  and  if 
my  pubUc  don't  like  me  they  can  console  themselves 
with  the  thought  that  a  look  at  my  clothes  is  worth  a 

ticket . 

Well,  the  fatal  word  has  gone  forth;  I  shall  probably 

regret  it,  but  it  is  too  late  now. 

Therefore,  dear  mother,  please  break  the  news  gently 
to  the  family  and  the  genealogical  tree,  whose  bark,  I 
hope,  is  worse  than  its  bite. 

335 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

We  leave  for  America  in  September.  Strakosch  goes 
before,  "to  work  it  up,"  he  says. 

New  York,  October. 

My  dear  Mother-in-law, — Don't  send  any  more 
letters  to  the  Barlows'.  We  thought  that  it  was  better 
not  to  stay  with  them  (pleasant  as  it  was)  any  longer. 
There  was  such  a  commotion  in  that  quiet  house,  such 
ringing  of  bells  and  running  about.  The  servants  were 
worn  out  attending  to  me  and  my  visitors. 

I  don't  know  where  to  begin  to  tell  you  about  this 
wonderful  escapade  of  ours.  I  call  it  my  "bravura  act." 
It  is  too  exciting!  I  copy  a  letter  just  received  from 
Strakosch,  in  answer  to  a  letter  of  mine,  to  show  you 
what  the  process  of  "working  up"  is.  He  writes:  "You 
wonder  at  your  big  audiences.  The  reason  is  very 
simple.  In  the  first  place,  people  know  that  you  are 
thought  to  be  the  best  amateur  singer  in  Paris — "La 
Diva  du  Monde" — besides  being  a  favorite  in  Parisian 
society,  and  that  you  have  not  only  a  beautiful  voice, 
but  also  that  you  have  beautiful  toilettes.  This  is  a 
great  attraction.  In  the  second  place,  I  allow  {as  a  great 
privilege)  the  tickets  to  be  subscribed  for;  the  remaining 
ones  are  bought  at  auction.  You  see,  in  this  way  the 
bids  go  'way  up.  ...  I  am  glad  I  secured  Sarasate  to  sup- 
plement," etc. 

We  have  taken  a  suite  of  rooms  in  the  Clarendon 
Hotel,  so  as  to  be  near  the  opera-house,  where  I  go  to 
practise  with  the  orchestra.  You  cannot  imagine  how 
intense  the  whole  thing  is. 

To  feel  that  I  can  hold  a  great  audience,  like  the 
one  that  greeted  me  the  first  night,  in  my  hand,  and  to 

336 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

know  that  I  can  make  them  laugh  or  cry  whenever  I 
please — to  see  the  mass  of  upturned  faces — is  an  inspir- 
ing sensation.  The  applause  bewildered  me  at  first,  and 
I  was  fearfully  excited;  but  one  gets  used  to  all  things 
in  the  end.  My  songs,  "Bel  raggio"  (Rossini),  "Voi 
che  sapete"  (Mozart),  and  "La  Valse  de  Pardon  de 
Ploermel"  (Meyerbeer),  were  all  encored  and  re-encored. 

I  said  to  Strakosch,  "I  can't  go  on  forever,  tripping 
on  and  off  the  stage  like  that!" 

He  answered,  laconically,  "Well,  you  see  people  have 
paid  much  for  their  tickets,  and  they  want  their  money's 
worth." 

I  said,  "I  wish  the  tickets  cost  less." 

The  flowers  (you  should  have  seen  them !)  were  mostly 
ivhat  they  call  here  "floral  tributes"  (what  you  would 
call  des  pieces  monUes),  and  were  brought  in  by  a  pro- 
cession of  ushers  and  placed  on  the  stage.  I  do  not 
mention  the  quantities  of  bouquets  handed  up  to  me! 

One  "floral  tribute"  received  an  ovation  as  it  was 
borne  up  the  aisle  by  four  men,  and  hauled  up  on  to 
the  stage  by  a  man  who  came  from  the  side  scenes. 
It  was  a  harp  made  entirely  of  flowers,  about  six  feet 
high.  It  made  quite  a  screen  for  me  as  I  went  in  and 
out.  The  card  of  the  harp  was  brought  to  me,  and  I 
read,  "H.  P.  Stalton,  'Asleep  in  Jesus,'  North  Conway." 
I  had  no  idea  what  it  meant,  but  mama  remembered 
that  some  years  ago,  when  she  and  I  were  traveling 
in  the  White  Mountains,  we  stopped  overnight  at  the 
little  town  of  North  Conway.  At  the  hotel  we  heard 
that  a  lady  had  died,  and  her  son  was  terribly  grieved. 
There  was  to  be  a  funeral  service  the  next  morning  in 
the  parlor  of  the  inn.     I  asked,  "Do  you  think  that  I 

337 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

might  sing  something?"  "Of  course,  any  music  would 
be  welcome,"  was  the  answer.  So  I  chose  the  hymn, 
"Asleep  in  Jesus,"  which  I  sang  when  the  time  came. 
As  there  was  nothing  but  an  old  piano,  I  preferred  to 
sing  without  accompaniment.  I  was  very  much  affect- 
ed, and  I  suppose  my  voice  showed  my  emotion,  because 
other  people  were  equally  affected.  As  for  the  young 
man,  he  knelt  on  the  floor  and  put  his  hands  over  his 
face  and  sobbed  out  loud.  Poor  fellow,  my  heart  bled 
for  him! 

I  sang  the  hymn  through  with  difficulty.  The  last 
verse  I  sang  pianissimo  and  very  slowly.  The  silence 
was  painful;  you  could  have  heard  a  pin  drop.  The 
whole  scene  was  very  emotional,  and  I  remember  feel- 
ing that  I  never  wanted  to  go  through  such  a  thing 
again.  The  young  man  had  not  forgotten,  after  all  these 
years,  either  the  song  or  the  singer.  Hence  the  beauti- 
ful harp  of  flowers  to  thank  me.  I  should  have  liked 
to  have  seen  him,  to  thank  him. 

There  is  a  very  sad,  pathetic,  and  patriotic  song  called 
"Tender  and  True,"  by  a  composer,  Alfred  Pease,  which 
I  sing.  Strakosch  said,  "You  must  have  in  your  reper- 
toire something  American."  This  song  is  about  a  young 
soldier  who  takes  "a  knot  of  ribbon  blue"  from  his  lady- 
love, and  who  dies  on  the  battle-field  with  the  knot  of 
ribbon  on  his  breast.  When  I  sing  "the  flag  draped  over 
the  coffin  lid"  the  whole  audience  is  dissolved  in  tears. 
The  women  weep  openly;  the  men  hide  behind  their 
opera-glasses  and  try  to  blow  their  noses  noiselessly  be- 
tween the  verses. 

I  always  finish  with  "Beware!"  and  Charles  always 
accompanies   me,  which  pleases  him  very  much.     He 

338 


IN   THE   COURTS   OF   MEMORY 

thinks  that  American  audiences  are  very  appreciative, 
because  they  stand  up  and  clap  and  the  women  wave 
their  handkerchiefs. 

I  tell  him  they  stand  up  because  the  next  thing  they 
are  going  to  do  is  to  go  out. 


Worcester,  December,  i8fi. 

Dear  Mother, — Thanks  for  your  letter.  I  had 
hoped  to  have  received  better  news  of  Charles. 

When  he  left  Thursday  he  did  not  look  well,  but  I 
thought  it  was  owing  to  the  excitement  and  late  hours 
and  the  irregular  life  we  have  been  leading.  He  wanted 
to  go  to  Cambridge,  where  he  thought  that  he  could 
take  better  care  of  himself.  I  would  have  gone  with 
him,  but  I  felt  that  I  could  not  leave  Strakosch  and 
Worcester  in  the  lurch. 

If  I  don't  receive  a  reassuring  telegram  from  you,  I 
shall  start  off  without  delay. 

I  was  dreadfully  nervous  and  unstrung,  as  you  will 
see,  when  I  tell  you  how  I  blundered.  I  do  not  like 
singing  in  oratorio.  Getting  up  and  sitting  down  all 
the  time,  holding  and  singing  from  a  book,  losing  my 
place  and  having  to  find  it  in  a  hurry,  is  not  what  I 
like.  However,  I  got  on  very  well  at  first,  but  there 
is  a  place  in  the  score  where  three  angels  come  forward 
and  sing  a  trio  without  accompaniment.  Then  the 
soprano  (me)  steps  in  front  and  sings,  without  a  helping 
note:  "Hail,  Hail,  O  Lord  God  of  Hosts!"  The  or- 
chestra and  chorus  take  up  the  same  phrase  after  me. 

I  sang  boldly  enough,  "Hail,  Hail,  O  Lord  God  of 
Hosts!"  but  suddenly  felt  cold  shivers  down  my  back 

339 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

when  Zerrahn  tapped  his  baton  on  his  stand,  thereby 
stopping  all  further  proceedings,  and  turning  to  me 
said,  in  a  low  whisper,  "A  half-tone  lower." 

Good  gracious,  how  could  I  find  the  right  note! 
First  I  had  to  remember  the  last  tone  I  had  sung,  then 
I  had  to  transpose  it  in  my  head,  all  in  an  instant.  It 
was  a  critical  moment. 

Suppose  I  did  not  hit  the  right  note!  The  whole  or- 
chestra and  the  two-hundred-man-strong  chorus  would 
come  thundering  after  me — the  orchestra  on  the  right  key 
and  the  chorus  following  in  my  footsteps. 

I  turned  cold  and  hot,  and  my  knees  trembled  under 
me.  You  may  imagine  what  a  relief  it  was  when  I 
heard  things  going  on  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  had 
struck  the  right  note!  And  I  finished  the  oratorio  with- 
out further  disaster.  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  in 
the  audience  remarked  anything  wrong. 

I  said  to  Zerrahn,  after :  ' '  Could  you  not  have  helped 
me?     Could  you  not  have  given  me  the  note?" 

"No,"  he  answered.  "Impossible!  I  could  not  ask 
the  nearest  violinist  to  play  the  note,  and  I  could  not 
trust  myself  to  find  it.     I  was  as  nervous  as  you  were." 

[Mrs.  Moulton  was  called  to  Cambridge  the  next  day. 
Mr.  Moulton  had  died  suddenly.] 

Cuba,  Havana,  January,  i8/j. 

Dear  Mama, — We  left  New  York  in  a  fearful  bliz- 
zard. It  was  snowing,  hailing,  blowing,  and  sleeting; 
in  fact,  everything  that  the  elements  could  do  they  did 
on  that  particular  day.     We  were  muffled  up  to  our 

340 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ears  in  sealskin  coats,  furs,  boas,  and  so  forth,  and  were 
piloted  over  the  wet  and  slippery  deck  to  our  state- 
room on  the  upper  deck,  which  we  wished  had  been  on 
the  under  deck,  as  it  was  continually  washed  by  the 
"wild  waves." 

We  knew  pretty  well  "  what  the  wild  waves  were  say- 
ing"; at  least  Laura  did,  and  they  kept  on  saying  it 
until  well  into  the  next  day. 

I  being  an  old  sailor  (not  in  years  but  in  experience), 
as  I  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  several  times,  felt  very 
superior  on  this  occasion,  and  looked  down  without 
sympathy  on  the  maiden  efforts  of  my  suffering  sister; 
and,  having  dressed,  goaded  her  almost  to  distraction 
to  get  up  and  do  likewise,  which  she  obstinately  refused 
to  do. 

After  ordering  breakfast  I  ventured  out  on  deck,  to 
find  myself  alone,  among  deserted  camp-stools.  I  re- 
alized then  that  the  others  preferred  "rocking  in  the 
cradle  of  the  deep"  in  their  berths  and  in  the  privacy 
of  their  cabins.  I  myself  felt  very  shaky  as  I  stumbled 
about  on  the  deck  holding  on  to  the  rails,  and  I,  hurry- 
ing back  to  the  haven  of  my  stateroom,  happened  to 
meet  the  struggHng  steward  endeavoring  to  balance  the 
tray  containing  the  breakfast  I  had  ordered,  and  to 
make  his  way  through  my  door. 

The  steward,  the  tray,  and  I  all  collided.  The  result 
was  disastrous :  the  food  made  a  bee-line  for  the  ceiling, 
the  drinkables  flooded  the  already  wet  floor  and  our 
shoes,  while  cups,  saucers,  plates,  and  dishes  were  scat- 
tered to  fragments. 

All  that  day  we  and  every  one  were  dreadfully  sick; 
but  what  a  contrast  the  next  day  was !     A  hot,  tropical 

23  341 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

sun  blazed  down  on  us;  the  awnings  were  put  up,  the 
ladies  appeared  in  lighter  costumes,  the  men  in  straw 
hats  and  thin  jackets.  How  odious  our  warm  wraps 
and  rugs  seemed !  And  how  completely  our  discomforts 
of  the  day  before  had  disappeared !  Laura  had  forgotten 
her  miseries,  and  was  already  planning  another  sea-trip, 
and  eagerly  scanning  the  menu  for  dinner,  to  which  she 
did  ample  justice. 

The  third  day  was  still  hotter;  parasols,  summer 
dresses,  and  fans  made  their  appearance,  and  at  four 
o'clock  we  saw  Morro  Castle  and  the  lighthouse ;  and  we 
steamed  (literally,  for  we  were  so  hot)  up  the  exquisite 
harbor,  where  white  Havana  lay  like  a  jewel  on  the 
breast  of  the  water. 

Hot!  It  must  have  been  one  hundred  and  ninety  in 
the  shade — if  there  had  been  any;  but  there  was  none. 
The  glare  of  the  whiteness  of  the  city  and  the  reflec- 
tion on  the  water,  the  air  thick  with  perfumes,  gave  us 
a  tropical  tinge,  and  made  us  shudder  to  think  what  we 
should  have  to  endure  before  we  could  rest  in  the  hotel, 
which  we  hoped  would  be  cool. 

Young  Isnaga,  who  has  just  come  from  Harvard  Col- 
lege, where  I  knew  him,  and  who  was  now  returning  to 
his  native  land  to  help  his  father  on  the  plantation, 
served  us  as  a  guide;  in  fact,  he  was  our  Baedeker.  He 
told  us  that  all  those  hundreds  of  little  boats  with 
coverings  like  hen-coops  stretched  over  them,  which 
swarmed  like  bees  about  our  steamer,  did  not  contain 
native  ruffians  demanding  our  money  or  our  lives,  as 
they  seemed  to  be  doing,  but  were  simply  peaceable 
citizens  hoping  to  earn  an  honest  penny. 

We  dreaded  going  through  the  custom-house  in  this 

342 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

excessive  heat;  but  Isnaga  recognized  one  of  his  ser- 
vants, in  a  small  boat  coming  toward  us,  gesticulating 
wildly  and  waving  a  paper;  this  paper  meant,  it  seemed, 
authority  with  the  officials,  so  we  had  no  delay,  as  Is- 
naga took  us  under  his  wing.  I  almost  wished  that  the 
custom-house  had  confiscated  my  thick  clothes  and  the 
fur-lined  coat ;  and  as  for  the  boa,  it  looked  like  a  vicious 
constrictor  of  its  own  name,  and  I  wished  it  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  sea. 

Isnaga  took  us  in  his  boat  and  landed  us  on  the 
tropical  "Plaza,"  where  we  found  his  volante  waiting. 
He  insisted  on  our  getting  into  this  unique  vehicle, 
which  I  will  describe  later  when  I  have  more  time. 

Our  one  thought  was  to  reach  the  hotel,  which  we  did 
finally,  sending  the  volante  back  to  its  owner  by  a  sweep- 
ing wave  of  the  hand  in  the  direction  of  the  quay,  which 
the  black  Jehu  seemed  to  comprehend. 

Fortunately  the  proprietor  spoke  what  he  thought 
was  English,  and  we  were  able  to  secure  very  good 
rooms  overlooking  the  harbor.  How  delicious  the  cool, 
marble-floored  room  appeared  to  us!  How  we  luxuri- 
ated in  the  fresh,  cold  water,  the  juiciest  of  oranges,  the 
iced  pineapples,  and  all  the  delicious  fruits  they  brought 
us,  and,  above  all,  in  the  balmy  air  and  the  feeling  of 
repose  and  rest!  We  reappeared  in  the  thinnest  of 
gauzes  for  the  repast  called  dinner. 

Adieu,  cold  and  ice!     Vive  le  soleil! 

This  hotel  (San  Carlos)  is  situated  right  on  the  bay. 
The  quay  in  front  of  us  is  garnished  with  a  row  of 
dwarf y  trees  and  dirty  benches,  these  last  being  deco- 
rated, in  their  turn,  by  slumbering  Cubans.  There  were 
colonnades  underneath  the  hotel,  where  there  were  small 

343 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

shops,  from  which  the  odor  of  garlic  and  tobacco,  com- 
bined with  the  shrieks  and  the  snapping  of  the  drivers' 
whips,  reached  us,  as  we  sat  above  them  on  our  balcony. 

The  hotel  is  square,  with  an  open  courtyard  in  the 
middle,  and  all  the  rooms  open  on  to  the  marble  gallery 
which  surrounds  the  courtyard.  This  gallery  is  used 
as  a  general  dining-room;  each  person  eats  at  his  own 
little  iron  table  placed  before  the  door  of  his  bedroom. 

Our  large  room  contains  two  iron  beds  (minus  mat- 
tresses), with  only  a  canvas  screwed  on  the  iron  sides, 
but  covered  with  the  finest  of  linen  sheets.  An  iron 
frame  holds  the  mosquito-net  in  place. 

Evidently  a  wash-stand  is  a  thing  to  be  ashamed  of, 
for  they  are  concealed  in  the  most  ingenious  way. 
Mine  in  the  daytime  is  rather  an  attractive  commode; 
Laura's  is  a  writing-table,  which  at  night  opens  up  and 
discloses  the  wash-basin.  Otherwise  there  is  little  fur- 
niture— two  cane-bottomed  chairs,  two  bamboo  tables 
(twins) ;  one  has  a  blue  ribbon  tied  on  its  leg  to  tell  it 
from  its  brother.  Two  ingeniously  braided  mats  of 
linen  cord  do  duty  for  the  descente  de  lit.  Oh  yes !  there 
is  a  mirror  for  each  of  us,  which  in  my  hurry  to  finish 
my  letter  I  forgot  to  mention;  but  they  are  so  small 
and  wavy  that  the  less  we  look  in  them  the  better  we 
are  satisfied  with  ourselves. 

We  have  a  large  balcony,  which  has  a  beautiful  view 
of  the  harbor  and  the  opposite  shore,  two  huge  wooden 
so-called  windows,  which  are  not  windows,  opening  on 
to  the  balcony.  There  is  a  panel  in  the  middle  which 
you  can  open  if  you  want  some  fresh  air.  Glass  is 
never  used  for  windows,  so  that  when  you  shut  your 
window  you  are  in  utter  darkness.     Opposite  is  the  door 

344 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

which  is  not  a  door,  but  a  sort  of  a  gate  with  lattice 
shutters,  giving  the  room  the  look  of  a  bar-room.  There 
is  space  above  the  shutters  which  is  open  to  the  ceiling. 

Any  one  in  the  gallery  who  wanted  to  could  stand 
on  a  chair  and  peer  over.  Everything  that  goes  on  in 
the  gallery,  every  noise,  every  conversation,  can  be 
clearly  overheard,  and  if  one  only  understood  the  lan- 
guage it  might  be  very  interesting. 

The  bars  and  locks  on  our  doors  and  windows  date 
from  the  fifteenth  century,  I  should  say,  and  it  is  with 
the  most  herculean  efforts  that  we  manage  to  shut 
ourselves  in  for  the  night;  and  we  only  know  that  the 
day  has  broken  when  we  hear  the  nasal  and  strident 
Cuban  voices,  and  the  clattering  of  plates  on  the  other 
side  of  the  gate.  Then  we  work  like  galley-slaves  un- 
barring, and  the  blazing  sun  floods  our  room. 

I  don't  know  if  bells  are  popular  in  Havana;  but  in 
this  hotel  we  have  none.  If  you  want  a  chambermaid, 
which  you  do  about  every  half -hour,  you  must  open 
your  gate  and  clap  your  hands,  and  if  she  does  not 
come  you  go  on  clapping  until  some  one  else  comes. 

For  our  early  breakfast  we  begin  clapping  at  an  early 
hour,  and  finally  our  coffee  and  a  huge  plate  filled  with 
the  most  delicious  oranges,  cut  and  sugared,  are  brought 
to  us.  We  tried  to  obtain  some  simple  toast;  but  this 
seemed  unknown  to  the  Cuban  cuisine,  and  we  had  to 
content  ourselves  with  some  national  mixture  called 
rolls. 

Cuba,  January  24,  187;^. 

The  letters  of  introduction  which  kind  Admiral  Polo 
(Spanish  Minister  in  Washington)  gave  me  must  be  very 

345 


IN   THE   COURTS   OF    MEMORY 

powerful  and  far-reaching,  for  we  are  received  as  if  we 
were  Princesses  of  the  blood.  The  Governor-General 
came  directly  to  put  himself,  his  house,  his  family,  his 
Generalship — in  fact,  all  Cuba — d  la  disposicidn  de  ustcd. 
The  Captain  of  the  Port  appeared  in  full  gala  uniform, 
and  deposited  the  whole  of  the  Spanish  fleet,  his  person, 
and  the  universe  in  general  at  my  feet,  and  said,  "That 
no  stone  should  be  left  unturned  to  make  our  stay  in 
Havana  illustrious  in  history." 

What  could  the  most  admirable  of  Polos  have  written 
to  have  created  such  an  effect  ?  Then  came  the  General 
Lliano,  a  very  handsome  man,  but  who  I  thought  was 
rather  stingy,  as  he  only  put  the  Spanish  Army  at  my 
disposition,  and  himself  (cela  va  sans  dire). 

Next  came  Senor  Herreras,  dressed  all  in  white,  with 
the  most  perfect  patent-leather  boots,  much  too  tight 
for  him,  and  which  must  have  caused  him  agonies 
while  he  was  offering  to  put  himself  (of  course) ,  his  bank, 
and  all  his  worldly  possessions  in  my  hands. 

I  accepted  all  with  a  benign  smile,  and  answered 
that  I  only  had  America  and  my  fur-lined  coat  and  boa 
to  offer  in  return. 

We  had  so  many  instructions  given  to  us  as  to  what 
to  do  and  what  not  to  do  in  this  perfidious  climate  that 
we  were  quite  bewildered. 

Never  to  go  out  in  the  sim.  Result — Malaria  and 
sudden  death. 

Never  put  your  feet  on  the  bare  floors.  Result — 
Centipedes. 

Never  drink  the  water.     Result — Yellow  fever. 

Never  eat  fruit  at  night.     Result — Typhoid  fever. 

If  you  sleep  too  much;  if  you  sit  in  the  draught;  if 

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IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

you  let  the  moon  shine  on  you.  Result — Lockjaw  and 
speedy  annihilation. 

These  admonitions  were  very  confusing,  and  we  lay 
awake  at  night  thinking  how  we  could  manage  to  live 
under  these  circumstances. 

What  a  delight  to  look  at  the  view  from  our  balcony ! 
I  never  imagined  anything  so  beautiful:  the  distant 
hills  are  so  blue,  the  water  so  sparkling,  the  sun  gilds 
the  hundreds  of  sails  in  the  harbor.  At  night  the  water 
is  brilliant  with  phosphorescence,  and  when  the  boats 
glide  through  it  they  throw  out  a  thousand  colors;  even 
the  reflection  of  the  stars  is  multicolored.  And  then, 
pervading  all,  the  delicious  fragrance  of  fruit  and  flowers 
and  tropicality! 

When  I  am  not  poetical,  as  above,  I  notice  the  ox- 
carts with  their  cruel  drivers  yelling  at  their  poor  beasts 
and  goading  them  with  iron-pointed  sticks.  When  they 
were  not  striking  them,  they  struck  picturesque  atti- 
tudes themselves,  leaning  on  their  carts  and  smoking 
endless  cigarettes.  The  cabmen  are  also  picturesque  in 
their  way.  After  their  return  from  a  "course,"  tired  out 
from  whipping  their  forlorn  horses  into  the  sideling  trot 
which  is  all  they  are  equal  to,  and  after  flicking  their 
ears  until  they  are  too  lazy  to  continue,  they  hang 
their  hats  and  stockingless  feet  over  the  carriage  lamps 
and  chew  sugar-cane,  looking  the  picture  of  content- 
ment. 

Cabs  are  cheap;  twenty-five  cents  will  take  you  any- 
where a  la  course.  But  if  you  go  from  one  shop  to  an- 
other, or  linger  at  a  visit,  fancy  knows  no  bounds,  for 
there  is  no  tariff  and  the  coachman's  imagination  is 
apt  to  be  vivid;   and  as  you  can't  trust  anything  else, 

347 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    xM  EMORY 

you  must  trust  to  your  conversational  powers  to  get 
you  out  of  the  scrape. 

Volantes  are  capricious  and  too  exotic  a  vehicle  to 
trifle  with;  moreover,  they  turn  corners  with  difficulty, 
and  corners  in  Havana  are  the  things  you  meet  the 
most  of. 

The  streets  are  narrow;  so  that  if  you  wish  to  avoid 
adventures  you  must  be  careful  to  give  your  coachman 
the  correct  address  before  starting  off.  The  porter  of 
the  hotel  did  this  for  us  to-day,  as  our  Spanish  has  not 
reached  perfection  yet. 

All  the  streets  are  labeled  sttbida,  which  means, 
"go  up  this  street,"  or  bajado,  "down  this  street." 
If,  by  chance,  you  want  to  go  to  27  suhida,  and  you 
amble  on  to  29,  it  takes  you  hours  to  go  ha j ado  and 
get  back  to  suhida  again,  going  round  in  a  cercle  vicieux. 
We  cspent  a  whole  broiling  afternoon  buying  two  spools 
of  thread,  my  parasol  being  mightier  than  my  tongue, 
as  the  poor  coachman's  back  can  vouch  for.  When 
everything  else  failed  we  shouted  in  unison,  "Hotel 
San  Carlos,"  and  the  black  coachman  grinned  with  de- 
light. Seeing  ha  j  ado  so  often  at  different  points,  Laura 
thought  it  was  the  sign  of  an  assurance  company ;  when 
I  saw  it  on  the  same  house  as  Man  a  Jesus  Street  I 
thought  it  was  some  kind  of  charitable  institution. 

A  volante,  as  I  have  said,  is  a  unique  and  delight- 
ful vehicle,  which  one  requires  to  know  to  appreciate. 
There  are  two  huge  wheels  behind  and  none  in  front; 
the  animal,  secured  between  the  shafts,  supports  the 
weight  of  the  carriage.  The  seat  is  very  low,  so  that 
you  recline,  more  than  sit ;  your  feet  are  unpleasantly  near 
the  horse's  tail;  a  small  seat  can  be  pulled  out  between 

348 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

you  and  your  companion  if  there  is  a  child  in  the 
party.  A  dusky  postihon  decked  out  in  high  top-boots, 
with  enormous  spurs  of  real  silver,  sits  astride  the  horse 
between  the  shafts,  and  a  huge  sombrero  covers  his  woolly 
head. 

The  harness,  spurs,  buckles,  and  a  good  deal  of  the 
carriage  trimmings  are  silver;  the  horse's  tail  is  braided 
once  a  week  and  tied  to  the  saddle.  No  frisky  fright- 
ening off  the  flies  from  his  perspiring  and  appetizing 
body!  Sometimes  (in  fact,  usually)  there  is  an  extra 
horse  outside  of  the  traces,  so  that  labor  is  thus  divided. 
The  volante  drags  the  people;  the  horse  in  the  shafts 
drags  the  volante,  and  the  extra  horse  drags  everything; 
the  coachman  does  the  spurring,  whipping,  and  shout- 
ing, and  the  inmates  do  the  lolling. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  my  friend,  Lola  Maddon,  whom  I 
used  to  know  in  Paris,  is  here,  married  to  Marquis 
San  Carlos,  who  was  a  fascinating  widower  with  several 
children,  whom  Lola,  like  the  dear  creature  she  is,  had 
taken  under  her  youthful  wing.  She  rushed  to  see  me 
the  moment  she  heard  that  I  had  come,  and  has  already 
begun  to  "turn  the  stones  "  which  are  to  be  turned  for 
me  to  make  my  "visit  illustrious"  here.  She  has  in- 
vited us  to  the  opera  to-morrow,  and  gives  a  soiree  for 
me  on  the  following  evening.  I  confess  I  am  rather 
curious  to  see  a  soiree  in  Havana.  I  hope  they  have  ice- 
chests  to  sit  on  and  cool  conversation.  I  shall  not  talk 
politics;  in  the  first  place  I  can't,  and  in  the  second  place 
because  it  is  heating  to  the  blood. 

Lola  says  her  husband  is  a  rabid  Spaniard.  "A  rabid 
Spaniard!"  Could  anything  be  more  alarming?  No; 
I  will  not  be  the  innocent  means  to  bring  about  dis- 

349 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

cussions,  and  precipitate  a  conflict  between  the  Cubans 
and  the  Spaniards!  I  have  pinned  upon  the  bed-cur- 
tains, next  to  the  precautions  for  preserving  health  and 
the  washing-Hst,  the  words,  "Never  talk  politics,  nor  be 
led  into  listening  to  them."  I  can  always,  if  pushed 
into  a  corner,  assume  an  air  of  profundity  and  say,  "Is 
the  crisis — "  and  then  stop  and  look  for  a  word.  The 
politician,  if  he  is  anything  of  a  politician,  will  finish  the 
phrase  for  me,  with  the  conviction  that  I  know  all  about 
it  but  am  diplomatic. 

To  see  the  cows  in  Havana  is  enough  to  break  your 
heart.  I  weep  over  them  in  a  sort  of  milky  way.  I 
have  always  seen  cows  in  comfortable  stables,  with  nice, 
clean  straw  under  their  feet  and  pails  full  of  succulent 
food  placed  within  easy  reach,  while  at  certain  intervals 
a  tidy,  tender-hearted  young  milkmaid  appears  with  a 
three-legged  stool  and  a  roomy  pail,  and  extracts  what 
the  cow  chooses  to  give  her.  But  here  the  wiry  creatures 
roam  from  door  to  door,  and  drop  a  pint  or  so  at  each 
call.  It  is  pitiful  to  see  the  poor,  degraded  things,  with 
their  offspring  following  behind.  The  latter  are  gra- 
ciously allowed  to  accompany  them;  but  no  calls  on 
Nature  are  permitted,  the  poor  little  things  are  even 
muzzled ! 

Whenever  I  wish  to  go  into  the  public  parlor,  where 

there  is  a  piano,  I  meet  the  Countess  C ,  who  has 

evidently  just  been  singing  to  her  son  and  her  husband. 

The  first  day  I  met  her  I  approached  her  with  the 
intention  to  talk  music;  but  she  swept  by  with  a  look 
which  withered  me  up  to  an  autumn  leaf  and  left  the 
room,  followed  by  her  music,  son,  and  husband;  but 
afterward,  when  she  saw  the  Captain  of  the  Port  in 

3  so 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

full  gala  offering  me  "Cuba  et  ses  dependances,"  she 
changed  her  manner,  and  then  it  was  my  turn!  When 
she  asked  me  if  I  also  knew  Count  Ceballos,  the  Governor- 
General,  I  answered,  with  a  sweet  smile,  "Of  course  I 
do."  "And  many  other  people  here?"  she  asked. 
"All  I  think  that  are  worth  knowing,"  I  replied,  getting 
up  and  leaving  the  room  as  abruptly  as  she  had  done. 
It  was  great  fun,  though  L thought  I  was  rude. 

We  went  to  the  theater  with  Marquise  San  Carlos. 
"All  the  world  is  here,"  said  she.  Certainly  it  looked 
as  if  all  Havana  filled  the  Tacon,  which  is  a  very  large 
theater.  Every  box  was  full,  and  the  parquet,  as  Lola 
told  me,  contained  the  haute  volee  of  the  town;  the  open 
balconies  were  sacred  to  the  middle-class,  while  in  the 
upper  gallery  were  the  nobodies,  with  their  children, 
poor  things!  decked  out  with  flowers  and  trying  to 
keep  awake  through  the  very  tiresome  and  demode 
performance  of  "Macbeth."  Tamberlik  sang.  What 
a  glorious  voice  he  has!  And  when  he  took  the  high 
C  (which,  if  I  dare  make  the  joke,  did  not  at  all  resemble 
the  one  Laura  and  I  encountered  coming  out  of  New 
York  Harbor)  it  was  all  I  could  do  to  sit  quiet.  I  wanted 
to  wave  something.  The  prima-donna  was  assoluta, 
and  must  have  been  pickled  in  some  academy  in  Italy 
years  ago,  for  she  was  not  preserved.  She  acted  as 
stupidly  as  she  sang. 

Each  box  has  six  seats  and  are  all  open,  with  the 
eternal  lattice-door  at  the  back,  and  separated  from  its 
neighbor  by  a  small  partition.  It  was  very  cozy,  I 
thought;  one  could  talk  right  and  left,  and  when  the 
gentlemen  circulated  about  in  the  entr'actes  smoking  the 
inevitable  cigarette,  which  never  leaves  a  Cuban's  lips 

351 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

(except  to  light  a  fresh  one),  all  the  lattice-doors  are 
eagerly  opened  to  them.  Lola  presented  all  the  haute  volee 
to  us ;  the  unpresented  just  stared.  I  never  realized  how 
much  staring  a  man  can  do  till  I  saw  the  Cuban.  I 
mentioned  this  to  Lola,  to  which  she  responded,  "It  is 
but  natural;   you  are  a  stranger." 

"Dear  friend,"  said  I,  "I  have  been  a  stranger  in 
other  lands,  but  I  have  never  seen  the  Hke  of  this.  If 
I  was  an  orang-outang  there  might  be  some  reason ;  but 
to  a  simple  mortal,  or  two  simple  mortals,  like  my  sister 
and  myself,  their  stares  seem  either  too  flattering  or  the 
reverse." 

"Why,  my  dear,"  she  replied,  "they  mean  it  as  the 
greatest  compliment,  you  may  believe  me."  And  she 
appealed  to  her  husband,  who  confirmed  what  she  said. 
All  the  gentlemen  carry  fans  and  use  them  with  vigor; 
the  ladies  are  so  covered  with  powder  (cascarilla)  that 
you  can't  tell  a  pretty  one  from  an  ugly  one.  If  one  of 
them  happens  to  sneeze,  there  is  an  avalanche  of  powder. 

Lola  showed  us  her  establishment  and  explained  the 
architecture  of  a  Cuban  house.  If  chance  has  put  a 
chimney  somewhere,  they  place  the  kitchen  near  it. 
Light  and  size  are  of  no  account,  neither  is  cooking  of 
any  importance. 

Cuba,  February,  i8yj. 

We  make  such  crowds  of  acquaintances  it  would  be 
useless  to  tell  you  the  names.  The  Marquise  San  Carlos 
sent  her  carriage  for  us  the  evening  of  her  soiree.  All 
the  company  was  assembled  when  we  arrived :  the  Mar- 
quis, the  Dean  of  Havana,  and  two  abbes  were  playing 
tresillo,  a  Spanish  game  of  cards. 

352 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

A  group  of  men  stood  in  the  corner  and  seemed  to 
be  talking  politics,  as  far  as  I  could  judge  from  their 
gesticulations.  A  few  ladies  in  sweeping  trains,  and  very 
decollctees,  sat  looking  on  listlessly.  The  daughter  of 
the  house  was  nearing  the  piano.  The  Dean  said  to 
me,  with  a  sly  smile,  "Now  is  the  coup  de  grdce^ — his 
little  joke.  She  sang,  "Robert,  toi  que  j'aime.  Gr^ce! 
Grace!"  etc.  Also  she  sang  the  waltz  of  "Pardon  de 
Ploermel,  a  familiar  ckeval  de  bataille  of  my  own,  which  I 
was  glad  to  see  cantering  on  the  war-path  again.  In 
the  mean  time  conversation  was  at  low  ebb  for  poor 
Laura.  She  told  me  some  fragments  which  certainly 
were  pecuHar.  For  instance,  she  understood  the  gentle- 
man who  had  last  been  talking  to  her  to  say  that  he  had 
been  married  five  times,  had  twenty-eight  children,  and 
had  married  his  eldest  son's  daughter  as  his  fifth  wife.  I 
afterward  ascertained  that  what  he  had  intended  to  con- 
vey was  that  he  was  twenty-eight  when  he  married  and 
had  fifteen  children.     That  was  bad  enough,  I  thought. 

I  sang  two  or  three  times.  The  gaiety  was  brought 
to  rather  an  abrupt  close,  as  the  Marquis  received  a 
telegram  of  his  brother's  death.  The  Abbe  went  on 
playing  his  game,  not  at  all  disturbed  (such  is  the  force 
of  habit) ;  but  we  folded  our  tents  and  departed. 

The  hours  are  sung  out  in  the  streets  at  night,  with 
a  little  flourish  at  the  end  of  each  verse.  I  fancy  the 
watchman  trusts  a  good  deal  to  inspiration  about  this, 
as  my  clock — an  excellent  one — did  not  at  all  chime  in 
with  his  hours.  Perhaps  he  composes  his  little  verse, 
in  which  case  a  margin  ought  to  be  allowed  him.  .  .  . 

The  bells  in  the  churches  are  old  and  cracked  and 
decrepit. 

353 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

All  the  fleet,  and  any  other  boat  that  wants  to  join 
in,  fire  off  salutes,  to  wake  you  up  in  the  morning. 

I  bought  to-day  the  eighth  part  of  a  lottery- ticket. 

The  Captain  of  the  Port  thinks  his  English  is  better 
than  his  French,  but  sometimes  it  is  very  funny.  He 
says:  "Don't  take  care,"  instead  of  "Never  mind" — • 
"The  volante  is  to  the  door" — "Look  to  me,  I  am  all 
proudness" — "You  are  all  my  anxiousness. " 

The  houses  are  generally  not  more  than  one  story 
high,  built  around  an  open  court,  on  which  all  rooms 
open.  In  the  middle  of  this  is  a  fountain;  no  home  is 
complete  without  a  fountain,  and  no  fountain  is  com- 
plete without  its  surroundings  of  palms,  plants,  and 
flowers.  In  one  of  the  rooms  you  can  see  where  the 
volante  reposes  for  the  night.  You  only  see  these  glories 
at  night.  When  the  heavy  bolts  are  drawn  back  you 
and  everybody  can  look  in  from  the  street  on  the  family 
gathering,  basking  in  rocking-chairs  around  the  fountain, 
and  in  oriental,  somnolent  conversation. 


Cuba,  February. 

The  annual  soiree  of  the  Governor  and  his  wife  took 
place  last  night.  The  Captain  of  the  Port  came  to 
fetch  us.  The  palace  is,  like  all  other  official  buildings, 
magnificent  on  the  outside,  but  simple  and  severe 
within.  There  was  a  fine  staircase,  and  all  the  rooms 
were  brilliantly  lighted,  but  very  scantily  furnished, 
according  to  our  ideas.  We  must  have  gone  through  at 
least  six  rooms  before  we  reached  the  host  and  hostess. 
Every  room  was  exactly  alike:  in  each  was  a  red  strip 
of  carpet,  half  a  dozen  rocking-chairs  placed  opposite 

354 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

one  another,  a  cane-bottomed  sofa,  a  table  with  nothing 
on  it,  and  walls  ditto.  There  are  never  any  curtains, 
and  nothing  is  upholstered.  This  is  the  typical  Cuban 
salon. 

There  was  an  upright  piano  and  a  pianist  at  it  when 
we  entered,  but  the  resonance  was  so  overpowering  that 
I  could  not  hear  what  he  was  playing.  Laura  and  I 
(after  having  been  presented  to  a  great  many  people) 
were  invited  to  sit  in  the  rocking-chairs.  The  gentle- 
men either  stood  out  in  the  corridor  or  else  behind  the 
chair  of  a  lady  and  fanned  her.  Diilces  and  ices  were 
passed  round,  and  every  one  partook  of  them,  delighted 
to  have  the  opportunity  to  do  something  else  than 
talk. 

When  the  pianist  had  finished  his  Chopin  a  lady 
sang,  accompanied  by  her  son,  who  had  brought  a  whole 
pile  of  music.  She  courageously  attacked  the  Cavatina 
of  "Ernani."  The  son  filled  up  the  places  in  her  vocali- 
zation which  were  weak  by  playing  a  dashing  chord. 
She  was  a  stout  lady  and  very  warm  from  her  exertions, 
and  the  more  she  exerted  herself  the  more  frequently 
the  vacancies  occurred;  and  the  son,  perspiring  at  every 
pore,  had  difficulty  to  fill  them  up  with  the  chords, 
which  became  louder  and  more  dashing. 

Countess  Ceballos,  with  much  hemming  and  hawing, 
begged  me  to  sing.  I  felt  all  eyes  fixed  on  me;  but  my 
eyes  were  riveted  to  the  little,  low  piano-stool  on  which 
I  should  have  to  sit.  It  seemed  miles  below  the  piano- 
keys.  ''How  could  I  play  on  it?"  Evidently  none  but 
long-bodied  performers  had  been  before  me,  for  when  I 
asked  for  a  cushion,  in  order  to  raise  myself  a  little, 
nothing  could  be  found  but  a  very  bulgy  bed-pillow, 

355 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

which  was  brought,  I  think,  from  the  mother  country. 
There  was  a  sort  of  Andalusian  swagger  about  it. 

The  dream  "that  I  dwelt  in  marble  halls"  was  no 
longer  a  dream.  Here  I  was  singing  in  one.  I  sang 
"Ma  Mere  etait  Bohemienne,"  and  another  song  which 
had  an  easy  accompaniment.  It  took  me  a  little  mo- 
ment to  temper  my  voice  to  these  shorn  rooms. 

The  charge  of  musketry  which  followed  was  deafen- 
ing, though  only  gentlemen  clapped  their  hands;  ladies 
don't  rise  to  such  exertion  in  Cuba.  I  sang  "Beware!" 
as  a  parting  salute.  The  Captain  of  the  Port  came  up, 
flushed  with  pride,  and  said,  in  his  best  English,  "I  am 
all  proudness!" 

Panelas  (large  pieces  of  frosted  sugar,  to  be  melted 
in  water)  and  other  sweets  were  passed  about  at  in- 
tervals. 

Shaking  hands  is  a  great  institution  here.  No  one 
wears  gloves  except  at  the  opera,  so  that  one's  hands 
are  in  a  perpetual  state  of  fermentation,  especially  after 
one  of  these  functions,  when  making  acquaintances, 
expressing  thanks,  and  everything  else  are  done  through 
the  medium  of  the  hands.  One  can  literally  say  that 
one  wrings  one's  hands. 

We,  as  the  distinguished  guests,  were  led  into  the 
supper-room  very  ceremoniously,  and  put  among  the 
higher  strata  of  society.  The  buffet  was  overflowing 
with  Cuban  delicacies  and  dulces.  I  reveled  in  the  fruit 
and  left  the  viands  severely  alone. 

After  supper  we  went  into  the  ball-room,  and  saw  for 
the  first  time  the  Cuban  waltz,  otherwise  called  Ha- 
banera, a  curious  dance  something  between  a  shuffle 
and  a  languid  glide.     The  dancers  hardly  move  from 

3S6 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

the  same  spot,  or  at  most  keep  in  a  very  small  circle, 
probably  on  account  of  the  heat  and  exertion ;  and  then 
the  dispersing  of  so  much  powder,  with  which  every 
lady  covers  herself  and  gets  rid  of  when  she  moves,  has 
to  be  considered. 

The  music  has  a  peculiar  measure;  I  have  never 
heard  anything  like  it  before.  The  instruments  seemed 
mostly  to  be  violins,  flutes,  clarinets,  and  a  small 
drum.  The  bass  is  very  rhythmical  and  deep,  whereas 
the  thin  tones  of  the  other  instruments  are  on  the  very 
highest  notes,  which  leaves  a  gap  between  the  upper 
and  lower  tones,  making  such  a  peculiar  effect  that  the 
music  pursues  and  haunts  you  even  in  your  dreams. 

We  bade  our  host  and  hostess  good  night  and,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Captain  of  the  Port,  who  now  was  not 
only  "all  proudness,"  but  full  of  "responsibilitiveness," 
left  the  palace.  In  passing  the  music-room  I  took  a 
farewell  look  at  the  bulgy  bed-pillow,  which  was  still 
reposing  on  the  music-stool. 

Cuba,  February. 

Dear  Mama, — You  have  no  idea  of  the  heat  here. 
I  never  felt  anything  so  scorching  as  it  was  to-day. 
Let  me  tell  you  what  happened. 

General  Lliano  came  in  the  morning  to  ask  what 
Havana  could  show  me.  I  answered  that  above  all 
things  I  wanted  to  see  Morro  Castle.  He  replied  that 
Morro  Castle  was  mine,  and  that  I  had  only  to  fix  the 
time  and  he  would  take  us  there, 

I  did  fix  it,  and  fixed  it  at  two  o'clock,  as  a  fit  hour 
to  visit  the  Cabana.  I  noticed  the  look  of  blank  despair 
on  our  friend's  face,  but,  not  knowing  that  all  Cuba 
24  357 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

slept  between  the  hours  of  two  and  five,  I  did  not  reaUze 
the  piteousness  of  it.  General  Lliano  begged  the  Cap- 
tain of  the  Port,  Senor  Catala,  to  accompany  us,  and 
both  of  these  gentlemen  came  in  full  uniform,  as  well  as 
their  aides-de-camp. 

The  Captain's  trim  little  boat  was  at  the  wharf  near 
our  hotel,  and  we  were  rowed  over  by  the  govern- 
mental crew  to  the  opposite  shore,  and  were  met  by 
the  Governor  of  Morro  Castle  at  the  landing  in  the  most 
sweltering  heat.  I  had  not  forgotten  to  take  the  pre- 
caution, which  anywhere  else  would  have  been  appro- 
priate, to  carry  extra  wraps,  as  I  told  Laura  that  they 
were  necessary  for  every  water  excursion.  You  may 
imagine  the  de-tropness  of  these  articles  when  the  ther- 
mometer was  up  at  one  hundred  and  twenty  in  the 
shade. 

We  were  taken  about  conscientiously  and  shown  all 
that  there  was  to  be  seen :  all  the  dungeon-cells  and  sub- 
terranean passages,  and  up  the  hill  to  see  the  view, 
which  was  very  extended  and  very  beautiful.  From 
there  we  went  to  the  Governor's  house,  where  we  were 
greeted  by  his  wife  and  daughter,  the  wife  stiff  in  black 
moire  (I  mean  the  moire  was  stiff,  not  she).  He  placed 
himself,  his  wife  and  daughter,  and  his  mansion  at  my 
disposal.  I  would  not  have  minded  taking  the  old 
gentleman;  but  I  absolutely  refused  the  lady  and  the 
moire  dress. 

Dulces  were  served  and  some  unappetizing-looking 
ices,  which  tasted  better  than  they  looked.  Cakes  also 
were  offered  us,  of  which  I  picked  out  those  which  had 
the  least  mauve  and  yellow  coatings.  When  we  were 
presented   with   some  stiff  little  bouquets  we  thought 

.     358 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

it  was  a  signal  for  departure,  and  bade  adieu  to  the  black 
moire  and  the  fast-melting  ices. 

From  the  Cabana  we  walked  along  the  macadamized 
road  to  the  Morro  Castle,  a  long  distance  it  seemed  to 
me  in  the  heat;  but  we  left  the  hard  and  glaring  road 
and  walked  over  the  grass,  following  the  line  of  the 
subterranean  passage,  which  made  a  sort  of  mound, 
and  finally  reached  Morro  Castle.  Here  there  were 
more  officials,  more  presentations  and  more  ceremo- 
nies, and  more  dulces  and  more  bouquets. 

The  view  from  the  ramparts,  on  which  stood  the  light- 
house, was  sublime :  the  blue  sea  underneath  us,  Havana 
on  the  left,  and  the  purple  mountains  in  the  far  dis- 
tance. 

One  of  the  officials  asked  us  whether  we  wanted  to 
go  to  the  top  of  the  lighthouse.  I  declined,  much  to  the 
relief  of  the  assembled  company.  They  say  that  fish 
have  been  thrown  up  by  the  spray  over  the  lighthouse; 
but  this  seems  almost  as  incredible  as  the  majority 
of  fishy  stories.  The  castle  is  very  high,  the  ramparts 
are  higher,  and  the  lighthouse  crowns  everything.  The 
water  dashes  up  through  narrow  crevices  in  the  rocks, 
which  gives  it  great  force,  and  possibly  might  account 
for  the  fish  story,  but  I  doubt  it. 

By  this  time  (six  o'clock)  we  were  utterly  exhausted. 
Even  at  this  hour  the  heat  was  intolerable.  We  had 
hoped  for  a  little  breeze  on  the  water;  but,  alas!  there 
was  none.  Poor  Senor  Herreras  held  his  foot  incased 
in  tight  patent  -  leather  boots  in  his  lap,  moaning, 
"Comme  je  souffre!" 

How  they  all  must  have  blessed  me  for  this  idea  of 
mine!     I  felt  ashamed  to  look  them  in  the  face. 

359 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Cuba,  1873. 

I  could  not  tell  you  all  the  things  we  were  taken  to 
see.  We  visited  the  German  and  Spanish  men-of-war. 
As  we  were  in  the  company  of  the  Governor-General, 
the  Commander,  and  the  Captain- General,  we  were  not 
spared  the  proper  salutes.  The  tour  of  the  war-ships 
had  to  be  made,  and  in  place  of  the  eternal  dukes 
international  refreshments  were  offered  us.  We  de- 
parted in  the  Captain  of  the  Port's  steam-launch,  and 
drove  to  the  Carreo,  where  the  pretty  villas  are. 

The  Governor- General  drove  us  out  to  his  quinta  in 
great  style :  English  horses  and  carriage  and  an  Ameri- 
can coachman.  The  roads  were  pretty  bad,  and  we 
were  considerably  jostled  going  through  the  Paseo.  The 
coachman  careered  from  side  to  side  to  avoid  ruts  and 
tracks,  and  the  dust  was  overpowering.  No  conversa- 
tion was  possible,  as  our  throats  were  filled  with  dust 
and  our  lives  hanging  on  a  thread.  I  waved  my  hand 
in  the  direction  of  anything  I  thought  pretty,  and  si- 
lence followed. 

At  the  quinta  all  was  ready  and  waiting  for  us. 
Fountains  were  playing,  servants  in  red  and  yellow  gor- 
geous liveries,  with  white  stockings,  were  flitting  about; 
various  Cuban  delicacies  were  offered  to  us,  and  we  ad- 
mired everything  that  was  to  be  admired.  The  return 
drive  was  delightful,  through  the  long  avenues  of  state- 
ly palms  and  graceful  date-trees. 

The  carnival  is  a  great  event  and  very  amusing.  I 
am  not  spoiled  in  the  way  of  carnivals,  only  having  seen 
that  of  Paris  (the  Bmif  gras)  and  the  Battle  of  Flowers 
at  Nice.     The  populace  turn  out  in  great  force,  every 

360 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

one  is  gay  and  happy,  and  the  Cubans  high  and  low 
join  in  the  sport. 

We  were  invited  to  drive  in  a  four-in-hand.  In  this 
way  we  had  a  kind  of  bird's-eye  view  of  the  whole.  No 
lady  thinks  herself  too  fine  to  join  in  the  carnival. 
The  procession,  which  defiles  up  and  down  the  Paseo 
during  the  fray,  begins  at  four  in  the  hot,  broiling  after- 
noon, and  ladies,  decked  out  as  Diana,  Minerva,  or  other 
celebrities,  powdered  a  Voutrance,  smiling  and  proud  of 
their  success,  recline  in  their  volantes.  Their  own  ser- 
vants, with  false  noses  or  otherwise  disguised,  have  their 
fun,  too.  I  never  saw  such  an  orderly  crowd;  no  push- 
ing, no  quarreling,  no  drunkenness,  and  yet  every  one 
was  enjoying  himself.  There  were  two  rows  of  carriages, 
one  going  up,  one  going  down,  with  a  place  in  the 
middle  for  the  four-in-hands  and  the  chars,  some  of 
which  were  very  ingenious.  There  was  a  steamship 
with  sailors,  who  kept  firing  off  the  whistle  every  time 
they  saw  a  skittish  horse.  On  another  car  were  men 
dressed  as  skeletons  with  death's-heads  instead  of 
masks,  and  Shy  lock-looking  Jews  riding  with  their 
backs  to  the  horses'  heads,  holding  on  to  their  tails. 

A  Punch  and  Judy  were  acting  on  a  little  stage  during 
the  procession,  surrounded  by  children  of  all  sizes  and 
ages  decked  out  in  costumes,  their  tinselly  flowers  show- 
ing off  their  thin  and  sallow  faces.  There  was  a  tre- 
mendous tooting  of  horns,  and,  with  the  music  in  the 
square  and  the  music  on  the  chars,  made  a  perfect  Bed- 
lam. People  nudged  one  another  as  we  hove  in  sight  in 
our  four-in-hand. 

The  G s  did  not  relish  the  carnival  as  much  as 

we  did,  and  thought  it  a  dismal  affair.     They  captured 

361 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

a  victoria  by  force,  the  coachman  refusing  to  take  them 
until  they  said  "Paseo,"  upon  which  he  started  off  on  a 
trot.  He  had  a  dilapidated  old  horse,  who  had  to  be 
beaten  all  the  way  there,  and  when  there,  what  do  you 
think  the  coachman  did  ?  Simply  pulled  out  a  false  nose 
and  put  it  on  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  stuck  his  hat  on 
the  lamp,  and  jeered  at  all  the  other  vehicles,  being  on 
jeering  terms  with  all  the  other  cabmen;  and  as  the 
Paseo  is  a  mile  long,  it  meant  a  mile  of  mortification. 
They  came  home  disgusted  and  voted  the  carnival  a 
* '  disgraceful  affair. ' ' 

Matanzas,  Cuba. 

Dear  M., — In  my  last  letter  I  told  you  of  our  invita- 
tion to  the  hat  poudre  and  masque  here.  Count  Ceballos, 
thinking  it  would  amuse  us  to  see  it,  arranged  that  we 
should  stay  at  the  palace,  where  the  ball  was  to  take 
place. 

The  Captain  of  the  Port,  with  his  aide-de-camp,  ac- 
companied us  on  our  trip,  and  as  he  was  going  there  in 
some  official  capacity,  we  shared  his  honors. 

We  had  no  adventures  except  that  of  traveling  in 
company  with  a  rather  rough-looking  set  of  men,  who 
were  on  their  way  to  a  cock-fight.  The  cocks  were  tied 
up  in  bags ;  but  as  I  wanted  to  see  one  the  man  opened 
the  bag  and  took  it  out,  and  also  showed  me  the  spurs 
they  strap  on  them  when  they  fight. 

We  arrived  in  Matanzas  about  six  o'clock,  to  find  the 
Mayor's  carriage  waiting  for  us.  We  drove  to  the 
palace,  and  after  dinner  dressed  for  the  ball.  We  did 
not  attempt  anything  in  the  way  of  mask  or  costume,  as 
being  unknown  and  unpowdered  was  a  sufficient  disguise. 

362 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  Captain  of  the  Port  knew  every  one  there,  and 
presented  many  of  his  friends.  We  went  out  and  stood 
on  the  balcony,  looking  at  the  sea  of  upturned  heads. 
It  seemed  as  if  every  Matanzois  who  was  not  inside 
was  outside  gazing  at  the  windows,  and  listening  to  the 
band  which  was  playing  in  the  square.  The  night  was 
glorious  with  a  full  moon. 

I  think  that  I  have  described  in  a  former  letter  the 
Cuban  dance,  the  languid  tropical  shuffle  they  call 
the  Habanera.  The  music  is  so  monotonous,  always  the 
same  over  and  over  again,  and  only  ceases  when  it  is 
convenient   to   the  musicians. 

The  ladies  had  cascarilla  (a  powder  made  of  egg- 
shells) an  inch  thick  on  their  faces.  I  doubt  if  the  offi- 
cers ever  saw  so  much  powder  as  they  did  at  this  bal 
poudr^. 

There  was  a  sit-down  supper,  consisting  of  sand- 
wiches smelling  strong  of  bad  butter,  ham  and  chicken 
salads,  dulces  of  all  sorts,  but,  alas!  no  fruit.  The 
dancing  continued  long  after  we  had  retired  for  the 
night. 

The  Marquis  Aldamar  invited  us  to  a  dejeHner  for 
the  following  day ;  the  volantes  were  again  "to  the  door," 
and  we  started  off  in  grand  style  and  great  spirits  and 
drove  to  the  top  of  the  mountain,  from  which  we  en- 
joyed a  perfectly  glorious  view  of  the  Yumiri  Valley. 
The  winding  river  looked  like  a  silver  thread  as  it  wound 
in  and  out  through  the  grassy  meadows. 

Our  d^j Chine r  was  of  a  more  European  character  than 
any  that  we  had  yet  had  in  Cuba;  the  menu  was  in 
French — evidently  the  cook  was  also  French — and  the 
servants  looked  imported.     In  fact,  everything  was  in 

363 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

very  good  style.  The  hostess  was  charming  and  musi- 
cal; she  sang  some  very  pretty  Cuban  songs,  and  after 
a  while  asked  me  if  I  were  musical,  and  if  I  would  play 
something. 

The  Captain,  in  an  undertone  and  in  all  "proudness," 
said,  "Ask  Madame  to  sing."  And  she  did  so  in  a 
rather  condescending  manner. 

I  accepted  and  went  timidly  to  the  piano,  and  as  I 
hesitated  as  to  what  I  should  sing,  she  said,  "Oh!  just 
sing  any  little  thing."  With  an  amused  glance  at 
Laura  I  sang  Chopin's  waltz,  which  is  the  most  difficult 
thing  I  sing,  and  the  astonishment  depicted  on  the 
countenance  of  my  patronizing  hostess  was  highly 
diverting. 

"I  wonder  if  you  are  any  relation  of  a  Mrs.  Moulton 
whom  my  cousin  knew  in  Paris,"  she  said.  "He  was 
very  intimate  with  a  family  of  your  name,  and  often 
talked  to  me  about  a  Mrs.  Moulton  who  sang  so  beau- 
tifully." 

"Can  it  be  that  I  am  the  same  person?  I  have  lived 
in  Paris.     What  was  your  cousin's  name?"  I  inquired. 

"Jules  Alphonso." 

"What!"  I  cried.  "Jules  Alphonso  your  cousin?  I 
have  not  seen  him  for  years.  I  used  to  know  him  so 
well.     Where  is  he?" 

"He  lives  here  in  Cuba,"  she  answered. 

"Where  in  Cuba?"  I  interrupted.  "How  extraor- 
dinary!    How  much  I  should  like  to  see  him  again!" 

"And  he,  I  am  sure,  would  like  to  see  you,  he  has 
so  often  talked  about  you  to  me.  I  felt  directly  last  night 
that  I  knew  you;   it  must  have  been  intuition." 

I  think,  Mama,  you  must  remember  Jules.     He  was 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

like  a  second  son  in  our  house,  and  was  an  intimate  friend 
of  my  brother-in-law,  and  would  have  liked  to  have  been 
a  brother-in-law  himself  if  he  had  been  accepted.  We 
all  loved  him.  How  strange  to  find  him  here!  The 
last  place  in  the  world  I  should  have  dreamed  of!  I 
am  not  sure  that  I  ever  knew  that  he  was  a  Cuban. 

My  new  friend  was  wild  with  joy.  "You  are  the  one 
person  that  I  have  wanted  to  know  all  my  life,  and,  fancy, 
here  3^ou  are!" 

Was  it  not  a  curious  coincidence  to  meet  here,  in  this 
out-of-the-way  place,  some  one  who  knew  all  about  me? 

I  repeated,  "I  must  see  Jules,  and  if  he  is  anywhere 
near  I  shall  certainly  try  to  find  him."  "Let  us  go 
together,"  she  said.  "I  will  drive  you  there,  and  we 
will  take  him  by  surprise."  Two  volantes  were  immedi- 
ately before  the  door,  and  the  Marquise  Aldamar,  the 
Captain  of  the  Port,  Laura,  and  I  started  for  La  Rosa, 
Jules's  plantation.  It  was  an  enchanting  drive,  though 
a  long  one,  leading,  as  it  did,  through  avenues  of  royal 
palms,  and  it  was  quite  six  o'clock  before  we  reached 
Jules's  house.  I  said  to  the  Marquise  Aldamar,  "As 
Jules  has  no  idea  that  I  am  in  this  part  of  the  world,  let 
me  go  in  alone  and  surprise  him." 

We  drove  up  to  the  entrance  of  his  pretty  villa,  and 
the  others  accompanied  me  to  the  door  of  the  salon 
with  a  finger  on  their  lips,  so  that  the  servant  should 
not  announce  us.  We  saw  Jules  sitting  at  a  table  read- 
ing. I  entered  softly  and  went  behind  him,  and  laying 
my  hand  on  his  shoulder  said,  "Jules!" 

He  turned  quickly  about,  and  when  he  saw  me  he 
thought  I  was  an  apparition  or  a  dream.  "What! 
What!"  he  cried,  trembling  with  astonishment. 

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IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"It  is  I — Lillie  Moulton,"  I  said,  quietly. 

"You!  you!  No,  it  can't  be  possible!"  And  he  took 
hold  of  my  hands  as  if  to  see  if  they  were  flesh  and 
blood.  "Where  did  you  come  from?  How  did  you  get 
here?  What  brought  you  here?"  followed  in  quick  suc- 
cession. The  others  pushed  aside  the  curtain  and  came 
in.  Then  followed  explanations.  I  was  obliged  to  an- 
swer thousands  of  questions,  and  go  into  thousands  of 
details,  concerning  the  family,  Paris,  the  war,  and  so 
forth.  He  ordered  champagne,  improvised  a  little  sup- 
per for  us,  and  did  not  seem  to  be  able  to  do  enough  to 
show  his  delight  at  seeing  me.  But  the  Captain  of  the 
Port  soon  reminded  us  that  it  was  time  to  be  on  our 
way  back  to  Matanzas,  as  it  was  a  long  drive,  and  I 
bade  a  tearful  farewell  to  lonely  Jules.  Our  comet-like 
visit  must  have  seemed  to  him  like  a  vision,  and  he 
watched  us,  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  drive  away  out  of 
his  life.     Poor  Jules ! 

Matanzas,  Cuba. 

We  spent  the  following  morning  in  driving  about  the 
city.  At  half-past  two  crossed  the  ferry  to  Yuanana- 
bocca,  where  we  found  the  amiable  director  and  the 
rest  of  the  party.  The  cars,  with  their  cane-bottomed 
seats,  were  cool.  The  scenery  was  exquisite.  On  both 
sides  of  the  road  were  real  jungles  of  tropical  growth,  with 
the  purple  mountains  as  a  background.  We  passed 
many  ingenios  (plantations),  with  their  tall,  smoking 
chimneys,  all  in  full  blast. 

On  reaching  our  destination  we  were  met  by  volantes 
and  saddle-horses.  The  former  were  for  the  ladies, 
the  latter  for  the  gentlemen  of  the  party,  and  we  made 

366 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

our  way  through  the  narrow,  dirty  streets,  passed  the 
walls  of  the  city,  and  came  out  on  to  the  beautiful  road, 
where  a  gang  of  chained  prisoners  were  breaking  stones. 

We  passed  many  villas  and  well-kept  gardens,  and 
arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  where  we  were  obliged 
to  get  out  and  walk,  for  the  roads  became  impassable. 
It  was  a  stiff  climb ;  but  when  we  reached  the  summit  we 
were  rewarded  by  a  most  magnificent  view.  We  de- 
scended and  reached  the  volantes,  the  drivers  whipped 
up  their  horses,  and  away  we  went  over  rocks  and  ruts, 
but  feeling  nothing  of  them.  That  is  the  charm  of  a 
volante;  only  the  wheels,  which  are  behind  you,  get  the 
jerks  and  jolts. 

After  a  half -hour's  drive  we  reached  the  famous  cave, 
Laura  and  I  were  supplied  with  garments  looking  like 
mackintoshes,  and,  provided  with  torches,  we  began  to 
descend.  We  first  came  to  a  large,  vaulted  hall,  where 
miles  of  stalactites  in  every  form  and  shape  twinkled  in 
the  light  of  the  torches. 

We  had  to  crawl  through  a  small  opening  to  get  into 
another  vaulted  room  which  boasted  of  an  echo.  The 
guide  struck  a  note  and  I  sang  a  cadenza,  which  resound- 
ed like  a  thousand  voices. 

There  never  could  have  been  a  thermometer  made 
that  could  register  such  heat  as  we  felt  here;  the  air 
was  frightfully  oppressive  and  almost  intolerable. 

They  pointed  out  the  Pope's  Miter,  the  Virgin's  Veil, 
the  Altar,  the  Boat — all  looking  about  as  much  like 
their  names  as  an  apple  looks  like  a  pack  of  cards. 
After  being  shown  the  lake  I  begged  for  fresh  air,  and 
we  mounted  the  steep  wooden  stairs.  The  hot  air  out- 
side seemed  like  a  wintry  breeze  when  we  came  into  it, 

367 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  we  were  told  that  we  must  cool  off  before  ventur- 
ing into  the  hot  sun.    Then  we  volanted  back  to  Matanzas. 

Our  next  visit  was  to  the  well-known  ingenio  (sugar- 
plantation)  belonging  to  the  cousin  of  the  Marquis 
San  Carlos.  The  sugar-mill  stood  in  front  of  the  mas- 
ter's house,  so  that  the  master  could  watch  from  his 
broad  balcony  the  bringing  in  of  the  sugar-cane,  which 
was  hauled  by  huge  cart-loads  drawn  by  oxen.  The 
sugar-cane,  on  its  arrival,  was  put  between  great  crushing 
wheels  before  it  was  thrown  into  the  vats.  The  sturdy 
negresses,  up  to  their  elbows,  stirred  the  foaming  syrup 
after  it  had  boiled.  Then  it  was  skimmed  and  boiled 
again  to  purify  it.  It  went  through  a  centrifugal  proc- 
ess to  crystallize  it,  and  afterward  was  packed  in  boxes 
and  stamped  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  relate  this. 
I  Hked  to  breathe  the  hot  vapors  coming  from  the  huge 
tanks.  What  remains  of  the  sugar  is  used  as  fuel;  so 
nothing  is  wasted. 

All  the  slaves  seemed  gay  and  well-fed.  The  Chinese, 
I  believe,  are  liked  better  than  the  natives,  they  are  so 
clean  and  adroit.  We  visited  the  houses  of  the  slaves 
and  found  them  all  well  kept.  The  master  threw  silver 
pieces  (ten  cents)  to  the  children,  who  seemed  content 
in  their  bare  nakedness  and  clamored  for  more  pennies. 
We  drank  querap  (molasses)  from  the  tanks  mixed  with 
whiskey.  It  was  very  good;  but  a  little  went  very  far. 
Two  small  children  fanned  us  with  palmettos  during 
dinner.  We  passed  the  night  there  in  the  ingenio;  but 
we  saw  no  tarantulas,  as  was  predicted.  The  next 
morning,  when  our  coffee  was  brought,  there  was  an 
assortment  of  delicious  fruits — pineapples,  guavas,  ba- 
nanas, cocoanuts,  mangos,  etc.,  which  we  enjoyed  im- 

368 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

mensely.  There  was  a  little  excitement  before  we 
started :  the  gardener,  a  bridegroom  of  eighty-five  sum- 
mers, was  married  to  a  blooming  young  person  of  eighty, 
both  slaves  and  black  as  ink.  We  arrived  at  Havana 
that  evening. 

You  can't  tell  how  grieved  I  was  to  hear  of  the  kind 
and  good  Emperor  Napoleon's  death.  He  was  only 
sixty-five  years  old,  I  thought  he  was  older.  What  an 
eventful  life  he  had — tragical  would  be  the  right  word. 
What  did  he  not  endure?  When  he  was  a  child  he  was 
an  exile,  and  since  then,  until  he  became  first  President 
and  then  Emperor,  he  was  knocking  about  the  world, 
sometimes  hidden  and  sometimes  pursued.  However, 
he  had  fifteen  years  of  glory,  for  there  was  not  in  all 
Europe  a  man  more  considered  than  he  was,  and  he 
had  until  the  last  four  years  of  his  reign  more  prestige 
than  any  other  sovereign.  I  think  after  the  tragedy  of 
Mexico  his  star  began  to  pale. 

The  Emperor  Napoleon  was  certainly  the  kindest- 
hearted  and  best-intentioned  man  in  the  world,  so  full 
of  life,  fun,  and  appreciation.  I  can  see  him  now  shaking 
with  laughter  when  anything  amused  him,  as  was  often 
the  case  at  Compiegne. 

The  papers  say  that  he  had  once  been  a  policeman 
in  London.  I  do  not  believe  this  is  true,  though  the 
Emperor  told  me  himself  that  he  had  lived  very  humbly 
at  times;  still,  that  is  very  different  from  being  a  police- 
man. I  wonder  if  the  Prince  will  try  to  get  back  the 
throne.  He  does  not  look  as  if  he  had  a  strong  character, 
nor  does  he  look  as  if  he  had  the  energy  of  the  Emperor, 
which  enabled  him  to  go  through  so  many  hardships  to 
gain  his  ends. 

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IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

How  sad  it  is!  I  am  sure  the  Empress's  only  con- 
solation is  the  thought  that  her  son  can  recover  the 
position  the  father  lost. 

We  returned  to  Havana  quite  tired  out  with  our  little 
journey,  and  glad  to  rest  in  the  quiet  of  our  cool  rooms, 
and  I  looked  across  the  water,  crowded  with  boats  of 
every  description,  and  gazed  with  delight  at  the  distant 
mountains,  with  their  clouds  dragging  themselves  from 
one  summit  to  the  other. 

How  hot  it  is!  I  never  thought  that  the  sun,  which 
is  so  high  up,  could  pour  down  so;  but  it  does  pour  down. 
I  think  it  is  hotter  here  than  in  Matanzas. 

We  shall  be  leaving  here  in  a  few  days,  and  I  suppose 
we  shall  find  ice  and  snow  in  New  York,  and  return  to 
india-rubbers  and  umbrellas  —  things  unknown  here. 
During  our  absence  some  German  men-of-war  have 
arrived  here,  and  stationed  themselves  right  in  front  of 
our  windows. 

It  must  be  their  wash-day,  for  all  the  sailors'  clothes 
are  hanging  out  to  dry. 

Lola  San  Carlos  is  in  light  gray — the  mourning  one 
wears  for  a  brother-in-law  is  not  heavy  in  this  warm 
country.  She  has  invited  us  to  a  card-party  for  to- 
morrow; card-parties  are  evidently  not  gay  enough  to 
interfere  with  tears. 

Cuba,  February. 

Dear  Mama, — Well,  we  are  really  going  to  return! 
As  usual,  I  have  no  more  clothes,  and  I  certainly  will 
not  be  bothered  to  have  anything  made  here.  My 
black  tulle  dress  has  become  brown  and  gray  in  its 
efforts  to  keep  up  to  the  mark ;  and  as  for  Laura's  white 

370 


IN   THE   COURTS   OF    MEMORY 

lace,  it  has  become  gray  and  brown,  so  you  see  we  must 
go  home. 

We  went  to  Lola's  card-party.  There  was  the  be- 
reaved brother,  looking  very  chirpy,  and  the  Dean,  and 
the  Abbe.  They  kindly  proposed  to  teach  me  their 
favorite  game  of  tresillo.  They  took  a  lively  interest  in 
my  ignorance.  They  told  me  the  rules  and  the  names 
of  the  extraordinary  cards;  for  instance,  hearts  were 
represented  by  coins,  for  clubs  there  were  clubs,  while 
trees  and  swords  served  for  diamonds  and  spades.  Every 
card  is  something  else  than  what  you  have  called  it  before. 
The  value  of  each  is  changed  according  to  the  trump. 
What  you  have  considered  always  as  a  low  card,  such  as  the 
two  of  spades,  suddenly  becomes  the  best  card  in  the  pack. 

All  the  cards  have  Spanish  names — Spadilla,  Manilla, 
Basta,  Ponto,  and  Matadores — which  sound  very  ro- 
mantic. A  simple  seven  of  hearts  becomes  suddenly 
top  card  and  is  called  Manilla,  which  is  the  second  best 
when  hearts  are  trumps,  and  then  the  two  of  clubs, 
which  was  miles  high  the  last  hand,  is  at  the  tail  of 
all  the  other  cards  now.  It  is  a  dreadful  game.  I 
thought  that  I  should  have  brain  fever  while  learning 
it.  They  went  on  playing  it  for  hours;  there  never 
seemed  any  end  to  it ;  they  counted  in  the  weirdest  way, 
making  ciphers  and  tit-tat-toes  on  the  green  baize  table 
with  chalk,  and  wiped  out  with  a  little  brush.  Every 
trick  of  the  adversary  was  deducted,  and  all  the  heads 
met  over  the  chalk-marks  to  find  out  mistakes. 

Cuba. 

Dear  M., — A  dance  was  given  at  the  Captain-Gen- 
eral's, where  all  the  officers  of  the  German  and  Spanish 

371 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

men-of-war  were  present.  It  was  a  very  brilliant  sight, 
and  we  made  many  delightful  acquaintances:  Com- 
modore Werner  of  the  German  Friedrich  Wilhelm,  Com- 
modore Livonius  of  the  Elizabeth,  besides  many  other 
charming  officers,  as  well  as  many  Spanish  officers  from 
the  Gerona.  The  Germans  danced  with  more  energy 
than  the  Cubans  are  accustomed  to,  and  they  stared  at 
the  unusual  vigor  displayed,  and  accounted  for  it,  say- 
ing it  was  because  they  were  new-comers.  In  fact,  the 
officers,  in  their  trim  uniforms,  looked  very  hot  and  wilted 
at  the  end  of  the  evening.  Commodore  Werner  was  a 
most  gallant  gentleman,  and  as  we  did  not  dance,  he  had 
the  leisure  to  tell  me  all  about  his  family,  his  literary 
tastes,  and  his  admiration  for  pretty  ladies ;  and  he  fin- 
ished by  asking  if  we  would  do  him  the  honor  to  lunch 
on  his  ship  the  next  day.  A  handsome  young  lieuten- 
ant (Tirpitz)  came  to  ask  me  to  dance,  but  Commodore 
Werner  gave  him  what  in  other  less  tropical  countries 
might  be  called  a  freezing  look,  remarking  that  no  one 
ought  to  dance  in  such  heat  as  this.  The  young  lieu- 
tenant left  us  quite  subdued;  but  the  heat  did  not  pre- 
vent his  dancing  with  many  ladies,  if  not  with  me. 

The  next  day  we  went  to  lunch  on  the  Friedrich  Wil- 
helm, and  it  was  with  delight  that  we  sat  on  the  awning- 
covered  deck.  The  Commodore  asked  me  to  give  him 
an  idea  for  some  occupation  for  the  sailors,  who  had  so 
much  time  on  their  hands,  and,  as  I  happened  to  know 
how  to  plait  straw,  I  proposed  showing  them  how  to 
do  it. 

The  Commodore  sent  a  launch  to  Havana  to  get  the 
straw,  and  we  passed  the  afternoon  dividing  the  time 
between  listening  to  the  music  of  the  ship's  band  and 

372 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

tasting  different  beverages  and  eating  German  pretzels 
and  teaching  the  sailors  how  to  plait. 

At  five  o'clock  we  were  rowed  ashore,  and  welcomed 
a  little  fresh  breeze  which  had  sprung  up. 

The  following  morning  the  inmates  of  the  hotel  were 
awakened  at  an  early  hour  by  the  soelmn  hymn  which 
belongs  to  a  German  serenade.  The  kind  Commodore 
had  sent  his  band  to  play  for  me,  and  it  filled  the  whole 
hall. 

The  early  breakfasters  were  dreadfully  put  out  about 
it ;  the  brass  instruments  sounded  like  a  double  orchestra, 
and  resounded  in  these  marble  halls  like  volleys  of 
musketry;  and  as  for  the  hotel-keeper,  he  has  not  got 
over  his  surprise  yet. 

We  had  many  pleasant  days  after  this.  Each  one,  we 
said,  would  be  the  last ;  still  we  stayed  on.  One  of  the 
German  men-of-war  gave  a  ball,  the  Spanish  gave  an- 
other; each  vied  with  the  other  to  give  the  finest  enter- 
tainment. It  was  a  pleasure  to  go  on  board  the  German 
boats,  everything  was  so  spick  and  span,  the  sailors  so 
neat  and  trim,  the  deck  so  beautifully  kept,  and  the 
brasses  glistened  red-hot  in  the  sun. 

I  cannot  tell  you  all  we  did  these  last  days.  I  was 
glad  to  hear  that  the  German  sailors  had  profited  by 
my  lessons,  and  had  in  a  short  time  plaited  straw  enough 
to  make  some  hats  for  themselves.  I  shall  always  feel 
proud  when  I  see  a  German  sailor  with  a  straw  hat, 
for  I  shall  feel  that  I  laid  the  foundation  of  this  in- 
dustry. 

One  of  the  afternoons  we  spent  on  the  Commodore's 
boat.  I  sang  for  the  officers  in  the  cabin,  and  then, 
when  I  was  on  deck,  I  sang  some  of  the  songs  from 
25  373 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

** Pinafore"  for  the  sailors,  whom  the  Commodore  called 
together  to  hear  me.  They  grinned  from  ear  to  ear 
when  I  sang  "What,  never?"  "Hardly  ever,"  and  "Never 
used  a  big,  big  D, "  in  the  captain's  song  in  "Pinafore." 
This  was  the  last  time  we  visited  our  amiable  German 
host. 

I  shall  post  this  letter  in  New  York.  It  will  probably 
reach  you  before  we  do. 

Our  departure  was  a  triumphal  procession.  The  Cap- 
tain of  the  Port,  devoted  to  the  last,  took  us  in  his  offi- 
cial steam-launch  to  our  steamer.  Flowers,  fruit,  and 
souvenirs  of  all  kinds  filled  our  cabin  to  overflowing, 
and  when  we  passed  the  German  boats,  hats  and  hand- 
kerchiefs were  waved  aloft,  and  the  bands  on  the  decks 
played  with  all  their  Teutonic  might  until  we  were  out 
of  hearing  distance. 

We  noticed  our  tall,  handsome  lieutenant  standing 
alone  on  the  fore  part  of  the  deck.  He  made  a  fine 
naval  salute,  while  the  good  Commodore  waved  his 
handkerchief  frantically. 

The  Captain  of  the  Port  accompanied  us  down  the 
harbor  as  far  as  Morro  Castle  in  his  steam-launch. 

Adieu,  dear  Havana ! 

Washington,  April,  1873. 

Dear  Laura, — The  weather  was  atrociously  bad  when 
we  returned  to  New  York,  and  as  for  Boston — it  was 
simply  impossible.  I  began  coughing  and  sneezing  as 
soon  as  I  reached  home.  So  I  decided  to  go  to  W^ash- 
ington  on  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Robeson,  wife  of  the  Secretary 
of  the  Navy.  She  had  often  asked  me;  this  was  an 
excellent  opportunity  to  accept. 

374 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Mrs.  Robeson  is  a  fine  woman,  built  on  ministerial 
lines,  and  looks  like  a  war-ship  in  review  rig.  They  have 
an  amusing  house.  Their  Sunday  evenings  are  the  ren- 
dezvous of  clever  people ;  the  men  are  particularly  enter- 
taining— Mr.  Blaine,  Mr.  Bayard,  and  other  shining 
lights. 

She  is  musical,  and  sings  with  pleasure.  She  has  a 
luscious  mezzo-soprano.  She  sang  "Robin  Adair"  on 
one  of  these  occasions  with  so  much  conviction  that  it 
seemed  as  though  she  was  routing  Robin  from  his  first 
sleep.  Then  she  sang  a  French  song  in  a  childish  voice 
(she  thought  it  was  a  backfisch  song) ;  but  I  think  it  was 
anything  but  that,  for  I  noticed  some  Scandi-knavish 
glances  between  the  Danish  and  Swedish  Ministers, 
which  made  me  suspicious. 

There  is  a  delightful  German  Minister  (Mr.  Schlozer) 
here,  who  is  very  musical;  though  he  does  not  know  a 
note  of  music,  he  can  improvise  for  hours. 


SOMMERBERG,   July,    1874. 

Dear  Mama,  —  My  last  letter  was  from  Dinard, 
where  I  was  nestling  in  the  bosom  of  my  family  and 
enjoying  the  repose  and  the  rest  that  family  bosoms 
alone  can  give.  I  told  you  of  my  intention  to  visit 
Helen  at  her  place  on  the  Rhine,  and  here  I  am  enjoying 
another  kind  of  rest :  the  rest  of  my  income. 

Paul  is  at  present  Minister  in  Madrid;  Helen  and  I 
lead  a  very  quiet  life.  Driving  to  Wiesbaden  to  see 
the  Nassaus  and  other  friends  is  our  favorite  occupa- 
tion.    We  linger  in  the  shady  walks  of  the  park,  look 

375 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

in  at  the  gambling-rooms,  sometimes  we  go  to  the 
races,  and  always  come  home  tired.  And  then,  how  we 
enjoy  the  garden  and  the  beautiful  view  over  the  Rhine ! 
Some  days  we  go  out  riding  in  the  lovely  forest,  which 
leads  to  the  most  prettily  situated  little  ''bad"  place 
in  the  world — Schlangenbad. 

Helen  has  in  her  stables  three  horses,  two  of  which 
are  the  "fat  ponies,"  and  the  third  is  the  war-horse  that 
Paul  used  in  the  French-German  campaign.  We  take 
the  war-horse  in  turn,  as  he  has  to  be  exercised.  When 
it  is  my  day  I  shudder  at  the  thought  of  it.  Riding  is 
not  my  strong  point;  in  fact,  it  is  my  weakest  point,  and 
I  feel  that  I  am  not  at  all  in  my  element;  and  when  I 
see  the  tall  beast  being  led  up  to  the  door,  and  I  know 
that  at  a  given  moment  I  am  to  be  fired  up  on  to  his 
back,  my  heart  sinks.  He  has  a  gentle  way  with  him 
which  makes  the  process  of  getting  on  him  extremely 
difficult.  Just  as  my  foot  is  in  the  groom's  hand,  and  I 
say  one — two — three,  and  am  in  midair,  the  horse  moves 
gently  to  one  side,  and  I  either  land  on  the  hard  pommel 
or,  more  often,  I  fill  an  empty  space  between  the  horse 
and  the  groom,  which  is  awkward.  However,  when, 
after  repeated  efforts,  I  do  manage  to  hit  the  saddle  on 
the  right  place  I  stick  there. 

He  is  full  of  fancies — this  horse — and  reminiscences, 
and  sometimes  gets  the  idea  into  his  head  that  he  hears 
the  bugle-call  to  arms.  Then  off  he  goes  to  join  his 
imaginary  companions,  and  charges  the  trees  or  any- 
thing that  occurs  to  him,  and  nothing  on  earth  can  stop 
him,  certainly  nothing  on  his  back  can.  My  hair  comes 
down  and  my  hat  flies  off,  and  I  feel  I  am  not  doing  the 
hatUe  ecolc  in  proper  style.     Fortunately  Helen  and  I 

376 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

are  alone,  and  as  the  war-horse  is  miles  in  front  of  the 
"fat  pony,"  she  does  not  see  the  ecole  I  am  doing,  and  I 
rather  enjoy  the  wild  way  we  career  over  space.  I  do 
not  attempt  to  guide  his  martial  steps,  but  let  him  come 
into  camp  when  he  feels  inclined. 

The  groom  is  never  surprised  if  I  come  an  hour  too 
late.  I  fancy  he  knows  what  I  have  gone  through: 
brambles,  branches,  and — agony. 


SoMMERBERG,  July,  i8'/4. 

I  have  just  returned  from  a  delightful  visit  to  the 
Prince  and  Princess  Mettemich.  It  was  very  hot  the 
day  I  left  here,  and  the  sun  poured  down  on  the  broad, 
white  roads  which  lead  from  Sommerberg  to  the  station. 
On  my  arrival  at  Johannisberg  Prince  Metternich  was 
waiting  for  me  with  a  caleche  a  la  Daumont. 

Our  jaunty  postilion  blew  his  little  horn  incessantly 
as  we  galloped  through  the  village  and  up  the  long, 
steep  hill  which  leads  to  the  chateau.  The  walls  on 
both  sides  of  the  badly  paved,  narrow  road  were  high 
and  unpicturesque — not  a  tree  to  be  seen;  vineyards, 
vineyards   everywhere — nothing  but   vineyards. 

The  chateau  is  a  very  ugly  building,  of  no  particular 
kind  of  architecture,  looking  more  like  a  barn  than  a 
castle.  It  is  shaped  like  an  enormous  E,  without  tow- 
ers or  ornamentation  of  any  kind. 

The  Princess  was  at  the  door,  and  welcomed  me  most 
affectionately,  and  with  her  were  the  other  guests:  the 
handsome  Duchess  d'Ossuna,  Count  Zichy,  Count 
Kevenhiiller,  Count  Fitz- James,  and  Commandant 
Duperre. 

377 


IN   THE    COURTS   OF    MEMORY 

The  immense  hall,  which  occupies  the  entire  center  of 
the  house,  has  five  windows  giving  out  on  the  courtyard 
and  five  on  the  terrace,  and  is  comfortably  furnished 
with  all  kinds  of  arm-chairs,  rugs,  and  so  forth.  A  grand 
piano  stood  in  one  corner  near  the  window,  and  over 
this  window  was  an  awning  (an  original  idea  of  the 
Princess,  to  put  an  awning  inside,  instead  of  outside  of 
the  window).  An  unusually  large  table,  covered  with 
quaint  books,  periodicals,  and  the  latest  novels,  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  there  were  plants, 
palms,  and  flowers  everywhere. 

The  Princess  showed  me  the  different  rooms.  Her 
boudoir  was  hung  with  embroidered  satin.  One  room 
I  liked  particularly;  the  walls  were  covered  with  the 
coarsest  kind  of  ecru  linen,  on  which  were  sewed  pink 
pigeons  cut  out  of  cretonne;  even  the  ceiling  had  its 
pigeons  flying  away  in  the  distance.  Another  room 
was  entirely  furnished  in  cashmere  shawls — a  present 
from  the  Shah  himself.  There  must  have  been  a  great 
many,  to  have  covered  the  walls  and  all  the  divans. 

Nowhere  could  the  Princess  have  had  such  a  chance 
to  show  what  she  could  do  as  here,  in  the  transforming 
of  this  barrack  into  a  livable  place.  I  admired  every- 
thing immensely.  She  told  me  that  she  thought  she 
was  very  practical,  because,  when  they  leave  here,  all 
the  hangings  can  be  taken  down  and  folded  and  put 
away,  so  that  the  next  year  they  are  just  as  good  as 
new. 

They  only  stay  here  two  months  every  year  (July 
and  August) ;  the  enormous  display  of  flowers  on  the 
long  terrace  before  the  chateau  is  also  temporary. 
There  are  at  least  four  to  five  hundred  pots  of  flowers, 

378 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

mostly  geraniums,  which  make  a  brilliant  effect  for  the 
time  being,  as  long  as  the  family  are  here;  then  they  go 
back  to  the  greenhouse. 

Tea  was  served  in  the  hall ;  every  one  was  in  the  gay- 
est of  spirits,  and  crowded  around  the  piano  to  hear 
Prince  Metternich's  last  waltz,  which  was  very  inspir- 
ing. After  the  music  was  finished  and  the  tea-table 
removed,  I  was  shown  to  my  rooms;  I  reached  them 
by  a  tiny  winding  staircase,  the  walls  of  which  were 
hung  with  Adrianople  (turkey  red),  and  covered  with 
miniatures  and  fine  engravings. 

Dinner  was  served  very  sumptuously;  the  servants 
were  in  plush  breeches  and  had  powdered  hair.  I  sat 
on  the  left  of  Prince  Metternich  and  next  to  Count 
Kevenhiiller,  who  is  a  Knight  of  Malta.  I  said  to  the 
Prince,  "A  Knight  of  Malta  always  suggests  to  my 
mind  romance  and  the  Middle  Ages." 

"It  shows,"  the  Prince  replied,  "how  naive  you  are. 
It  is  true  that  he  is  middle-aged,  but  he  has  not  a  ray 
of  romance  in  him.  Don't  trust  him !  Maltese  Knights 
and  Maltese  cats  do  their  killing  on  the  sly." 

During  the  dinner  delicious  Johannisberg  was  served 
alternately  with  ordinary  beer.  Conversation  alter- 
nated with  laughter,  and  after  dinner  albums  and  music 
alternated  with  flirtations.  The  Prince  played  some  of 
his  charming  new  songs.  On  the  piano  was  a  beauti- 
fully bound  book  containing  them.  He  pointed  to  it, 
saying,  "I  have  had  this  made  for  you,"  and  showed 
me  the  title-page,  where  he  had  written,  "A  I'lnspira- 
trice!"  I  was  tremendously  pleased  and  sang  all  the 
songs,  one  after  the  other.  The  Prince  has  had  leisure 
to  compose  a  great  deal  since  he  retired  into  private 

379 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

life.  He  is  wonderfully  talented — not  only  for  music, 
but  for  painting.  Everything  he  does  he  does  better 
than  any  one  else. 

He  said  that  during  the  war,  when  he  was  obliged  to 
stay  in  Bordeaux,  he  would  have  died  of  ennui  if  he  had 
not  had  his  music  and  drawing  to  occupy  him,  es- 
pecially as  the  Princess  and  the  children  were  not  with 
him,  and  he  was  dreadfully  lonely. 

It  was  a  lovely  night,  and  we  walked  till  very  late 
on  the  terrace  and  gazed  at  the  view  across  the  Rhine, 
over  the  miles  of  vineyards  and  little  villages  sparkling 
with  lights. 

The  Prince  told  me  all  about  the  Empress's  flight 
from  the  Tuileries  after  the  catastrophe  of  Sedan.  He 
said  that  when  the  news  came  to  the  Embassy  that  the 
mob  was  about  to  enter  the  Tuileries  he  communicated 
with  Count  Nigra  (the  Italian  Ambassador),  and  they 
decided  to  go  there  instantly,  to  offer  their  services  to 
the  Empress. 

When  they  arrived  there  they  saw  the  mob  already 
before  the  gates.  They  left  their  carriages  on  the 
quay,  and  entered  by  a  door  into  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre,  and  hurried  to  the  apartment  of  the  Empress. 
There  they  found  her  with  Madame  Le  Breton.  She 
was  very  calm  and  collected,  already  dressed  in  a  black- 
silk  gown,  and  evidently  prepared  for  flight.  She  had 
in  her  hand  a  small  traveling-bag,  which  contained  some 
papers  and  a  few  jewels. 

Seeing  them,  she  exclaimed,  "Tell  me,  what  shall 
I  do?" 

The  Prince  said,  "What  does  General  Trochu  advise, 
your  Majesty?" 

380 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Trochu!"  she  repeated.  "I  have  sent  for  him  twice, 
but  he  does  not  trouble  himself  to  answer  or  to  come 
to  me." 

Then  the  Prince  said,  "Count  Nigra  and  I  are  here 
to  put  ourselves  entirely  at  your  Majesty's  service." 

The  Empress  thanked  them  and  said:  "What  do 
you  think  best  for  me  to  do?  You  see  how  helpless  I 
am." 

The  Prince  answered  that,  according  to  their  judgment, 
the  wisest  thing  for  her  Majesty  to  do  would  be  to  leave 
Paris  at  once,  and  added  that  his  carriage  was  there 
and  she  could  make  use  of  it. 

She  then  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak  and  said,  "I  am 
ready  to  follow  you." 

They  went  through  the  Pavilion  de  Flore  and  through 
the  Galerie  du  Louvre  until  they  reached  a  small  door 
leading  out  on  to  the  quay,  where  the  two  coupes  were 
waiting.  The  Prince  had  already  thought  of  one  or 
two  friends  to  whom  the  Empress  could  go  and  remain 
until  they  joined  her,  to  help  her  to  devise  some  means 
for  leaving  Paris.  He  said  that  during  the  long  walk 
through  the  gallery  the  Empress  remained  calm  and 
self-possessed,  though  one  could  see  that  she  was  suffer- 
ing intensely. 

They  reached  the  quay  without  hindrance  and  found 
the  carriages.  The  Prince  opened  the  door  of  his  and 
gave  his  orders  to  his  coachman;  but  the  Empress  sud- 
denly refused,  saying  that  she  preferred  to  go  in  a  cab, 
and  begged  them  not  to  follow  her. 

There  was  a  cab-stand  directly  opposite  where  they 
stood.  They  hailed  one,  and  she  and  Madame  Le 
Breton  were  about  to  get  in  when  a  little  boy  cried  out, 

381 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Voila  rimperatrice !"  Count  Nigra,  quick  as  thought, 
turned  on  the  boy  and  said  in  a  loud  voice,  "Comment! 
tu  cries  'Vive  la  Prusse!'  "  and  boxed  his  ears,  so  that 
attention  should  be  diverted  from  the  Empress. 

The  Prince  gave  the  names  of  the  streets  and  the 
numbers  of  the  houses  to  the  cabman  where  he  had 
proposed  to  the  Empress  to  go,  and  the  ladies  drove 
away. 

"Did  you  not  follow  her?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "In  spite  of  the  Empress's 
wishes,  after  allowing  enough  time  for  her  to  get  well 
on  her  way,  we  drove  to  the  two  addresses  given, 
but  did  not  find  her  at  either  of  them.  We  could  not 
imagine  what  had  happened  to  her." 

"What  had  happened  to  her?"  I  asked. 

"It  was  only  after  hours  of  the  greatest  anxiety  that 
we  ourselves  knew.  About  six  o'clock  I  received  a 
note  from  the  Empress  saying  that  she  had  gone  to  the 
two  houses  we  had  named,  but  that  no  one  was  there, 
and  then,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  had  in  despair 
thought  of  Dr.  Evans,  the  dentist,  and  had  driven  to 
his  house,  where  she  was  in  safety  for  the  moment." 

"What  a  dreadful  moment  for  the  Empress!  How 
did  she  dare  to  send  the  note  to  you?" 

"It  was  imprudent,"  said  the  Prince;  "but  she  in- 
trusted it  to  Dr.  Crane,  who  happened  to  be  dining  with 
Dr.  Evans.  He  brought  it  to  me  and  gave  it  into  my 
own  hands." 

"Did  you  go  to  see  her?" 

"Yes,  I  went  to  see  her;  but  strict  orders  had  been 
given  not  to  let  any  one  enter,  not  even  me." 

The  Prince  showed  me  this  letter,   which  he  kept 

382 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

locked  up  in  a  desk.  Seeing  the  tears  in  my  eyes,  he 
said,  giving  me  the  envelope,  "I  know  you  will  value 
this,  and  I  beg  you  will  keep  it." 


y^^i^  c.<^  /^  ^^'^^^^^^Z^c^^^i^Cti 


I  told  him  that  I  would  value  it  more  than  any  one 
possibly  could,  and  did  not  know  how  to  thank  him 
enough. 

He  told  me  a  great  deal  more  about  the  Empress,  her 
hardships  and  trials,  and  how  brave  she  had  been 
through  them  all.  She  never  uttered  a  word  of  reproach 
against  any  one,  except  against  Trochu,  whom  she  called 
an  arch-traitor.  He  told  me  also  of  the  last  time  he 
had  seen  her  Majesty  at  Chiselhurst,  and  how  sad  this 
interview  had  been.  The  beautiful  and  adored  Empress 
of  France  now  a  widow  and  an  exile!  I  was  sorry  that 
our  conversation  was  interrupted — I  could  have  listened 
for  hours;  but  tea  was  announced,  and  we  were  obliged 
to  leave  the  library. 

The  next  day  the  Prince  and  his  friends  were  deeply 

383 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

engaged  in  making  a  kite;  they  tried  everything  imagi- 
nable to  coax  it  to  fly,  but  it  refused.  The  Prince  even 
mounted  a  ladder,  hoping  to  catch  the  wind  by  holding 
it  higher;  but  all  in  vain.  The  moment  he  let  go,  down 
flapped  the  kite  with  almost  human  spitefulness. 

After  the  Prince  had  said  saperlotte!  twenty  times, 
they  gave  up  the  kite  and  played  tennis,  a  aiew  game, 
over  which  he  is  as  enthusiastic  as  he  used  to  be  over 
croquet,  until  the  blast  of  a  horn  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  archducal  four-in-hand,  which  they  were  ex- 
pecting. 

Then  there  was  a  hurried  putting  on  of  coats  and 
wiping  of  perspiring  brows,  and  they  all  went  forward 
to  receive  the  Archduke  Louis,  who  had  driven  over 
from  Wiesbaden  to  spend  the  day,  bringing  with  him 
some  younger  gentlemen. 

Prince  Metternicli  immediately  proposed  their  play- 
ing tennis.  Some  of  them  were  eager  to  do  so,  but  the 
Archduke,  being  fatigued  by  his  long  drive,  begged  to 
go  to  his  room  until  luncheon. 

Then,  while  the  gentlemen  were  playing  tennis,  the 
Princess  took  me  to  the  kitchen-garden  to  show  me  the 
American  green-corn,  planted  from  seeds  which  we  had 
given  to  her  at  Petit  Val  four  years  ago.  She  told  me, 
with  great  joy,  that  we  were  to  have  some  for  dinner. 

After  luncheon  we  were  invited  to  visit  the  famous 
wine-vaults.  The  intendant  appeared  with  the  keys, 
and,  accompanied  by  a  subordinate,  we  followed  him 
down  the  stairs  to  the  heavily  bolted  oak  door,  which  he 
opened  with  a  flourish.  The  first  thing  we  saw,  on 
entering,  was  Willkommen  in  transparencies  in  front  of 
the  entrance. 

384 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

These  cellars  had  the  same  dimensions  as  the  castle, 
one  hundred  feet  each  way.  Rows  and  rows  of  large 
casks  placed  close  together  lined  the  walls,  and  each 
cask  had  a  lighted  candle  upon  it  embedded  in  plaster. 
Lamps  hung  at  intervals  from  the  vaulted  ceiling,  giv- 
ing a  weird  lock  to  the  long  alleys,  which  seemed  to 
stretch  out  for  miles  through  the  dim  vista. 

We  walked  on.  Every  little  while  we  came  to  what 
the  Prince  called  a  cabaret,  and  what  the  Princess  called 
more  poetically  a  bosquet,  but  which  literally  was  a 
table  and  chairs  surrounded  by  plants.  The  smell  of 
the  vvine  was  overpowering.  When  we  reached  bosquet 
No.  I  the  intendant  handed  each  of  us  a  full  glass 
of  Johannisberg,  the  same  that  was  served  at  the  table; 
at  bosquet  No.  2  we  received  only  half  a  glass  of  a  finer 
quality.  At  bosquet  No.  3,  on  the  walls  of  which  were 
the  initials  of  the  Duchess  d'Ossuna  (E.  O.,  formed  by 
candles),  we  only  got  a  liqueur  glassful. 

The  farther  we  went  the  older,  and  therefore  the  more 
valuable,  the  wine  was,  and  the  less  we  were  given. 
When  we  reached  bosquet  No.  6,  the  last  stop,  we  were 
allowed  a  discreet  sip  from  a  sherry  glass,  which  was 
passed  on  from  one  to  the  other  like  a  loving-cup. 

We  were  told  that  the  wines  from  the  years  1862  and 
1863  are  considered  to  be  the  best.  It  is  strange  that 
they  are  entirely  different  from  each  other;  the  first 
is  very  sweet  and  the  second  is  very  dry. 

What  was  my  surprise  to  see  here,  "I  know  a  Lillie 
fair  to  see,"  against  the  walls  designed  in  candles.  The 
Princess  told  me  that  the  Prince  had  been  a  long  time 
making  this,  and  I  hope  I  showed  due  appreciation  of 
the  compliment.     I  was  immensely  flattered. 

385 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  wine  is  the  color  of  amber,  or  pale  yellow,  accord- 
ing to  the  year,  and  tastes  delicious;  the  aroma  re- 
minds one  of  sandalwood. 

The  wines  of  the  best  years  are  only  sold  in  bottles 
bearing  the  cachet  of  the  Prince's  arms,  and  the  auto- 
graph of  the  intendant ;  the  color  of  the  seal  denotes  the 
quality.  Cabinet  bleu  is  the  best  that  can  be  bought; 
the  less  fine  qualities  are  sold  in  barrels. 

You  will  be  interested  to  hear  how  they  gather  the 
grapes.  It  is  very  carefully  done :  each  bunch  is  picked 
like  a  flower,  and  each  grape  is  selected  with  the  greatest 
care;  any  grape  with  the  slightest  imperfection  is  dis- 
carded. They  remain  longer  on  the  vines  here  than 
anywhere  else,  so  that  the  sweetness  of  the  grape  is 
doubly  concentrated. 

A  good  year  will  produce  from  sixty  to  eighty  thousand 
bottles,  and  bring  in  an  income  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  marks. 

The  company  which  built  the  railroad  through  the 
grounds  had  to  pay  an  enormous  sum  for  the  land, 
every  inch  of  which  is  worth  its  weight  in  gold. 

You  may  imagine  the  despair  of  the  intendant  when 
he  sees  so  much  of  this  valuable  land  taken  for  the 
croquet  and  tennis  games;  but  the  last  straw  is — the 
corn ! 

One  of  the  guests  here,  Duchess  d'Ossuna,  is  a  very 
striking  and  handsome  lady  who  has  been  a  great 
beauty  and  is  still,  though  now  about  forty  years  old. 
Her  husband  is  one  of  the  richest  men  in  Spain,  but  is 
in  such  wretched  health  that  she  has  expected  hourly 
to  be  a  widow  for  many  years. 

Coming  away  from  the  insidious  fumes  of  the  wine 

386 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

into  the  hot  air,  and  leaving  the  dark  cellars  for  the 
glaring  broad  daylight,  made  us  all  feel  a  little  light- 
headed. I  noticed  that  the  Archdiike  had  to  be  gently 
and  with  due  discretion  aided  up  the  steps. 

He  dropped  into  the  first  available  bench  and  said, 
solemnly  and  with  conviction :  ' '  To  see  this  wine  makes 
one  want  to  taste  it ;  to  taste  it  makes  one  want  to  drink 
it;    to  drink  it  makes  one  want  to  dream." 

I  hope  that  you  appreciate  this  profound  saying;  it 
ought  not  to  be  lost  to  posterity. 

We  left  him,  thinking  he  would  prefer  the  society  of 
his  adjutant  to  ours.  I  knew  that  I  preferred  mine 
to  any  one  else's,  and  went  to  my  room,  mounting  its 
winding  staircase,  which  I  thought  wound  more  than  was 
necessary.  Taking  guests  into  wine-cellars  is  the  great 
joke  here,  and  it  never  fails. 

Every  one  was  in  exuberant  spirits  at  dinner.  I  wish 
I  could  remember  half  of  the  clever  things  that  were 
said.  The  com  came  on  amid  screams  of  delight. 
Our  hostess  ate  thirteen  ears,  which,  if  reduced  to  ker- 
nels, would  have  made  about  one  ordinary  ear,  there 
was  so  much  cob  and  so  little  corn.  The  Princess  en- 
joyed them  hugely. 

Coffee  was  served  on  the  terrace.  Later  we  had  music 
in  the  hall,  and  before  the  departure  of  the  Archduke 
there  was  a  fine  display  of  fireworks  sent  off  from  the 
terrace,  which  must  have  looked  splendid  from  a  dis- 
tance. 

SOMMERBERG,  AugUSt,  1874. 

Dear   M., — Prince  Emil  Wittgenstein  and  his  wife 
have  a  pretty  villa  at  Walhuf,  directly  on  the  Rhine, 

387 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  they  invited  Helen  and  me  to  dine  and  spend  the 
night  there.  Prince  Wittgenstein  promised  to  show  us 
some  wonderful  manifestations  from  spiritland.  Helen 
is  not  a  believer,  neither  am  I,  but  the  Prince  thinks  I 
am,  and,  as  Helen  could  not  leave  her  guests,  I  went 
alone. 

The  Prince  wrote  that  he  had  induced,  with  great 
difficulty  (and  probably  with  a  great  deal  of  expense), 
the  much-talked-of  Miss  Cook  to  come  with  her  sister 
to  pay  them  a  visit  at  their  villa.  Miss  Cook  is  the 
medium  through  whom  the  Empress  Josephine  and 
Katie  King  (a  lady  unknown  to  the  world,  except  as 
being  the  daughter  of  a  certain  old  sea-captain,  called 
John  King,  who  roamed  the  seas  a  hundred  years  ago 
and  pirated)  manifest  themselves. 

I  was  delighted  to  have  this  chance  of  seeing  Miss 
Cook,  because  I  had  read  in  the  English  papers  that  she 
had  lately  been  shown  up  as  a  gigantic  fraud.  At  one 
of  her  seances  in  London,  just  as  she  was  in  the  act  of 
materializing  in  conjunction  with  the  Empress  Jose- 
phine, a  gentleman,  disregarding  all  rules  of  etiquette, 
sprang  from  the  audience  and  seized  her  in  his  arms; 
but  instead  of  melting,  as  a  proper  spirit  would  have 
done,  the  incensed  Empress  screamed  and  scratched 
and  tore  herself  away,  actually  leaving  bits  of  her  rai- 
ment in  his  hands.  This  rude  gentleman  swears  that 
the  imperial  nails  seemed  wholly  of  earthly  texture,  and 
that  the  scratches  were  as  thorough  and  lasted  as  well 
as  if  made  by  any  common  mortal. 

Since  this  incident  Miss  Cook  had  thought  it  wiser 
to  retire  into  private  life,  and  has  secured  a  husband 
calling  himself  Corner.     Prince  Wittgenstein  found  her, 

388 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and,  wishing  to  convert  his  wife,  could  think  of  no 
better  way  than  to  let  her  see  Miss  Cook  materialize. 
The  wife  and  her  friend,  Princess  Croy,  are  avowed 
disbelievers. 

Our  dinner  was  dull  beyond  words.  There  were 
the  Prince  Nicholas-Nassau  and  his  wife;  the  Duke 
Esslingen,  who  is  nearly  blind,  without  a  wife  but  with 
convictions;  Count  and  Countess  de  Vay,  and  the  tM^o 
English  ladies  already  mentioned.  Miss  Cook,  alias  Mrs. 
Comer,  is  a  washed-out  blond,  rather  barmaidish-looking 
English  girl  of  medium  (oh  dear !  I  really  did  not  mean 
to)  height  and  apparently  very  anemic. 

After  dinner  we  were  led  into  the  room  in  which  the 
seance  was  to  take  place,  and  were  seated  round  a  large 
table,  and  told  to  hold  our  tongues  and  one  another's 
hands;  the  gas  was  turned  down  to  the  lowest  point, 
the  lamps  screwed  down,  and  there  we  sat  and  waited 
and  waited. 

The  poor  host  was  chagrined  beyond  utterance; 
something  was  the  matter  with  the  magnetic  current. 
Sometimes  he  would  tap  on  the  table  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  spirit  underneath,  but  nothing  helped; 
the  spirits  were  obstinate  and  remained  silent. 

I  ventured  to  ask  the  Duke,  by  the  side  of  whom  I 
sat  and  held  on  to,  in  what  manner  the  spirits  made 
known  their  answers.  He  said  that  one  knock  meant 
"yes,"  no  knock  meant  "no,"  and  two  knocks  meant 
"doubtful."  At  last  we  heard  a  timid  knock  in  the  di- 
rection of  Mrs.  Comer.  Then  every  one  was  alert. 
Prince  Wittgenstein  addressed  the  spot  and  whispered 
in  his  most  seductive  tones,  "Dear  spirit,  will  you  not 
manifest  yourself?"  Two  knocks  (doubtful). 
26  389 


IN    THE    COURl'S    OF    MEMORY 

"Is  the  company  seated  right?"  (Silence,  meaning 
"no.") 

"Is  the  company  congenial?"     (Silence.) 

To  find  out  who  the  uncongenial  person  was,  every 
one  asked,  in  turn,  "Is  it  I?"  until  Princess  Wittgenstein 
put  the  question,  upon  which  came  a  vigorous  single 
knock. 

"My  dear,"  said  the  Prince,  "I  am  sorry  to  say  it, 
but  you  must  go." 

So  she  left,  nothing  loath.  We  all  thought  for  sure 
something  would  happen  now,  but  nothing  did. 

Prince  Wittgenstein  commenced  the  same  inquiries, 
whether  the  company  was  now  congenial ;  but  it  seemed 
that  Princess  de  Croy  was  de  trap,  and  she  was  also 
obliged  to  leave  the  room.  (You  see,  the  spirits  did  not 
like  to  single  out  the  hostess  alone.)  Now  we  were 
reduced  to  nine  believers  with  moist  hands. 

Would  the  Empress  not  now  appear?  We  waited 
long  enough  for  her  to  make  up  her  mind ;  but  it  seemed 
that  neither  her  mind  nor  anything  else  was  ready  to 
be  made  up.  The  spirits  were  perhaps  willing,  but  the 
flesh  was  too  weak.  Then  Mrs.  Comer  remembered 
that  at  the  last  sitting  the  Empress  had  declared  that 
she  would  never  appear  on  German  soil  (her  feelings 
having  been  wounded  during  the  Franco-German  War). 

There  still  remained  Katie  King.  We  had  not  heard 
from  her  yet.  Prince  Wittgenstein  addressed  the  table 
under  his  fingers:  "Oh,  dear  spirits,  do  do  something! 
Anything  would  be  acceptable!"  How  could  he  or  she 
resist  such  humble  pleadings? 

Then  some  one  felt  a  cold  wind  pass  over  his  face. 
Surely  something  was  happening  now! 

390 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"It  must  be  Katie  King  about  to  materialize,"  said 
the  hopeful  Prince. 

Then  we  saw  a  dim  light.  We  strained  our  eyes  to 
the  utmost  to  discover  what  it  was.  I  should  have  said, 
if  I  had  been  truthful,  that  to  me  it  looked  like  a  care- 
fully shaded  candle;  but  I  held  my  tongue.  The  hand 
of  my  neighbor  was  fast  becoming  jelly  in  mine,  and  I 
would  have  given  worlds  to  have  got  my  hand  out  of 
the  current;  but  I  did  not  dare  to  interfere  with  it,  and 
I  continued  to  hold  on  to  the  jelly.  Whoever  was  being 
materialized  was  doing  it  so  slowly,  and  without  any 
kind  of  system,  that  we  hardly  had  the  patience  to  sit 
it  out.  Then  a  tambourine  walked  up  some  one's  arm, 
Prince  Nassau's  spectacles  were  pulled  off  his  august 
nose  by  invisible  hands  (of  course,  who  else  would  have 
dared  ?) ,  thus  making  him  more  near-sighted  than  ever. 
His  wife's  necklace  of  turquoises  was  unclasped  from  her 
neck  and  hooked  on  to  the  neck  of  the  acolyte  sister; 
but  on  anxious  and  repeated  demands  to  have  it  re- 
turned, it  was  replaced,  much  to  the  owner's  relief. 
Prince  Wittgenstein  thought  it  silly  of  her  to  have  so 
little  confidence.  Suddenly,  while  necklaces  were  chang- 
ing necks,  we  saw  what  looked  like  a  cloud  of  gauze. 
We  held  our  breaths,  the  raps  under  the  table  redoubled, 
and  there  were  all  sorts  of  by-play,  such  as  hair-pulling 
and  arm-pinching,  but  no  Katie.  The  gauze  which  was 
going  to  be  her  gave  up  trying  and  disappeared  altogether. 
"Never  mind,"  said  the  Prince.  "It  does  not  matter 
[I  thought  so,  too.]     She  will  come  to-morrow  night." 

This  was  very  depressing;  even  Prince  Wittgenstein 
was  utterly  discouraged  and  decided  to  break  up  the 
seance,  and,  groping  his  way  to  the  nearest  lamp,  turned 

391 


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A 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

children  who  stood  stupidly  in  the  middle  of  it,  gaz- 
ing at  us  with  open  eyes  and  mouth. 

The  Schloss  is  a  very  large,  square  building,  with 
rounded  towers  in  the  four  corners.  It  has  been  re- 
modeled, added  to,  and  adorned  so  many  times  that 
it  is  difficult  to  tell  to  which  style  of  architecture  it 
belongs.  The  chapel  is  in  an  angle  and  opens  on  to 
the  paved  courtyard. 

Our  first  evening  was  spent  quietly  making  acquaint- 
ance with  the  other  guests.  The  next  morning  we 
lunched  at  eleven  o'clock,  the  gentlemen  in  knicker- 
bockers and  shooting  attire,  the  ladies  in  sensible  gowns 
of  light  material  over  silk  petticoats.  Simplicity  is  the 
order  of  the  day.  Our  lunch  consists  of  many  courses, 
and  we  might  have  lingered  for  hours  if  the  sight  of  the 
postman  coming  up  the  avenue  had  not  given  us  the 
excuse  to  leave  the  table  and  devote  ourselves  to  our 
correspondence,  which  had  to  be  done  in  double-quick 
time,  as  the  postman  only  waited  a  short  fifteen  minutes, 
long  enough  to  imbibe  the  welcome  cup  of  coffee  or  the 
glass  of  beer  which  he  found  waiting  him  in  the  kitchen. 
The  Countess,  although  the  mother  of  a  young  man 
twenty-four  years  of  age,  has  a  pink-and-white  com- 
plexion and  a  fine,  statuesque  figure.  She  is  a  Russian 
lady  by  birth,  and  does  a  lot  of  kissing,  as  seems  to  be 
the  custom  in  Russia.  She  told  me  that  when  a  gentle- 
man of  a  certain  position  kisses  your  hand  you  must 
kiss  his  forehead. 

'Tsn't  this  rather  cruel  toward  the  ladies?"  I  said. 

"Why,"  she  asked,   "do  you  think  it  is  cruel?" 

"Ladies  sometimes  have  on  gloves  when  they  give 
their  hands  to  be  kissed,  whereas  there  are  some  fore- 

393 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

heads  which  ought  to  have  gloves  on  before  they  are 
kissed." 

The  young  Count,  when  he  returned  from  the  races 
at  Wiesbaden,  brought  with  him  a  young  American  who 
had  been  presented  to  him  by  a  friend  of  his,  who  said 
that  Mr.  Brent,  of  Colorado  (that  was  his  name),  was 
very  "original"  and  ausserordenlich  charmant.  And  he 
was  both  charming  and  (especially)  original;  but  not 
the  type  one  meets  in  society. 

He  was  a  big,  tall,  splendidly  built  fellow  with  the 
sweetest  face  and  the  liquidest  blue  eyes  one  can  imag- 
ine. He  had  a  soft,  melodious  voice  and  the  most 
fascinating  manner,  in  spite  of  his  far- Western  language. 
Every  one  liked  him;  my  American  heart  warmed  to 
him  instantly,  and  even  the  austere  grande  dame,  our 
hostess,  was  visibly  captivated,  and  the  prim  German 
governess  drank  in  every  word  he  said,  intending,  no 
doubt,  to  improve  her  English,  which  otherwise  she 
never  got  a  chance  to  speak. 

The  two  young  men  arrived  yesterday  just  in  time 
for  tea.  When  the  Countess  asked  him,  in  her  most 
velvety  tones,  "Do  you  take  sugar,  Mr.  Brent?"  "Yes, 
ma'am,  I  do — three  lumps,  and  if  it's  beety  I  take  four. " 
(I  trembled!  What  would  he  say  next?)  "I've  got  a 
real  sweet  tooth,"  he  said,  with  an  alluring  smile,  to 
which  we  all  succumbed.  The  governess,  remembering 
what  hers  had  been  before  acquiring  her  expensive  false 
set,  probably  wondered  how  teeth  could  ever  be  sweet. 

While  dressing  for  dinner  I  shuddered  at  the  thought 
of  what  his  dinner  toilet  might  be ;  but  I  cannot  say  how 
relieved  I  was  when  I  saw  him  appear  (he  was  the  last 
to  appear)  dressed  in  perfect  evening  dress,  in  the  latest 

394 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

fashion,  except  his  tie,  which  was  of  white  satin  and 
very  badly  tied.  The  salon  in  which  we  met  before 
dinner  is  a  real  museum  of  rare  pictures,  old  furniture, 
and  curiosities.  The  walls  are  hung  with  old  Italian 
faiences  and  porcelains.  A  huge  buffet,  reaching  to 
the  ceiling,  is  filled  with  Venetian  goblets  and  majolica 
vases. 

A  vast  chimney  piece,  under  which  one  can  stand  with 
ease,  is  ornamented  with  a  fine  iron  bas-relief  of  the 
family  arms,  and  a  ponderous  pair  of  andirons  which 
support  a  heavy  iron  bar  big   enough  to  roast  a  wild 

boar  on.     Count  G called  Mr.   Brent's  attention 

to  it,  and  Mr.  Brent  said,  pleasantly,  "1  suppose  this 
is  where  the  ancestors  toasted  their  patriarchal  toes." 

At  dinner  he  sat  next  to  the  governess,  and  I  could 
see  her  trying  to  digest  his  "original"  language;  and  I 
was  near  enough  to  overhear  some  of  their  conversation. 
For  instance,  she  asked  him  what  his  occupation  was  in 
his  native  land.  "Oh,"  he  said,  "I  do  a  little  of  every- 
thing, mostly  farming.  I've  paddled  my  own  canoe 
since  I  was  a  small  kid." 

"Is  there  much  water  in  your  country -place?"  she 
inquired. 

"Don't  you  mean  country?  Well,  yes,  we  have  quite 
a  few  pailfuls  over  there,  and  we  don't  have  to  pull  a 
string  to  let  our  waterfalls  down." 

My  neighbor  must  have  thought  me  very  inattentive ; 
but  I  felt  that  I  could  not  lose  a  word  of  Mr.  Brent's 
conversation.  The  vestibule  (or  "Halle,"  as  they  called 
it),  where  we  went  after  dinner,  used  to  be  occupied  by 
the  Corps  du  Garde.  It  had  vaulted  ceilings  and  great 
oak  beams,  and  was  filled  with  hunting  implements  of 

395 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

all  ages  arranged  in  groups  on  the  walls  very  artisti- 
cally; there  were  cross-bows,  fencing-swords,  masks, 
guns  (old  and  new),  pistols,  etc.  Mr.  Brent  was  very 
much  impressed  by  this  collection,  gazed  at  the  speci- 
mens with  sparkling  admiration,  and  remarked  to  the 
governess,  who  was  always  at  his  elbow,  "I  never  saw 
such  a  lot  of  things  [meaning  the  weapons]  outside  of 
a  shindy." 

"What  is  a  shindy?"  inquired  the  governess,  always 
anxious  to  improve  her  knowledge  of  the  language. 

"Why,  don't  you  know  what  a  shindy  is?  No? 
Well,  it's   a   free   fight,  where  you   kill  promiscuous." 

"Gott  im  Himmel!"  almost  screamed  the  terrified 
damsel.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  killed 
any  one  otherwise  than  in  a  duel?" 

"I  can't  deny  that  I  have  killed  a  few,"  Mr.  Brent 
said,  cordially,  "but  never  in  cold  blood." 

"How  dreadful!"  his  listener  cried. 

"But  you  see,  over  there,"  pointing  with  his  cigar 
into  the  vague  (toward  Colorado),  "if  a  man  insults 
you,  you  must  kill  him  then  and  there,  and  you  must 
always  be  heeled." 

"Heeled!"  she  repeated,  puzzled.  "Do  they  always 
get  well?" 

Neither  understood. 

Probably  she  thinks  to  this  day  that  a  shindy  is  an 
exceptionally  good  hospital. 

The  Count  said,  "This  room  is  a  very  good  specimen 
of  Renaissance  style." 

Mr.  Brent  replied,  "I  don't  know  what  'renny- 
saunce'  means,  but  this  room  is  the  style  I  Hke";  and 
added,  "It's  bully;    and  to-morrow  I'd  like  to  take  a 

396 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

snap-shot  of  it  and  of  all  the  company  to  show  mother, 
if  [with  his  charming  smile]  you  will  let  me." 

"You  shall  take  that  and  any  other  thing  you  like," 
said  the  Count.  "How  long  do  you  intend  staying  in 
Europe?" 

' '  That  depends, "  answered  Mr.  Brent.  ' '  I  came  across 
the  pond  because  the  doctor  said  I  needed  rest  and  change . ' ' 

"I  hope  that  you  have  had  them  both,"  the  Count 
said,  kindly. 

"I  got  the  change,  all  right;  but  the  hotel-keepers 
got  the  rest,  as  the  story  goes." 

Every  one  laughed  and  voted  the  young  and  clever 
American  perfectly  delightful. 

The  Countess  extended  her  jeweled  hand  when  she 
bade  him  good  night,  the  hand  that  always  had  been  held 
with  reverence  and  pressed  gently  to  lips,  and  felt  it 
seized  in  a  grip  which  made  her  wince. 

"Madame,  you  are  just  as  sweet  as  you  can  be.  I 
cottoned  to  you  right  off  the  minute  I  saw  you,  just  as 
I  did  to  'sonny,'  over  there,"  pointing  to  the  noble 
scion  of  the  house.  The  governess  made  a  note  of  the 
word  "cotton."  The  Countess  was  dumfounded;  but 
our  young  friend  seeming  so  imconscious  of  having 
said  or  done  anything  out  of  the  way,  she  simply,  in- 
stead of  resenting  what  in  another  would  have  been 
most  offensive,  looked  at  him  with  a  lovely,  motherly 
smile,  and  I  am  sure  she  wanted  to  imprint  a  kiss  on 
his  forehead  d  la  Russe. 

The  next  morning  the  Countess  mentioned  that  she 
had  a  quantity  of  old  tapestries  somewhere  about  in 
the  house.  "Where  are  they?"  we  all  exclaimed. 
"Can  we  not  see  them?" 

397 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"Certainly,  but  I  do  not  know  where  they  are,"  an- 
swered the  Countess.     "They  may  be  in  the  stables." 

We  went  there,  and  sure  enough  we  found,  after  rum- 
maging about  in  the  large  attic,  a  quantity  of  old  tapes- 
tries: three  complete  subjects  (biblical  and  pastoral),  all 
of  them  more  or  less  spoiled  by  rats  and  indiscriminate 
cutting. 

It  amused  me  to  see  in  the  servants'  dining-room 
some  good  old  pictures,  while  in  ours  the  walls  were 
covered  with  modern  engravings. 

We  were  about  thirty  at  table,  and  in  the  servants' 
hall  there  were  nearly  sixty  persons.  Lenchen,  my  old- 
maid  maid,  puts  on  her  best  and  only  black-silk  dress 
every  day  and  spends  hours  over  her  toilette  for  dinner. 

Mr.  Tweed,  the  English  trainer,  says  that  the  stables 
here  are  among  the  finest  in  Germany,  and  that  the 
Count  owns  the  best  race-horses  in  the  land,  and  is  a 
connoisseur  of  everything  connected  with  horses. 

Our  Colorado  friend  did  not  seem  at  all  overwhelmed 
with  the  splendor  of  the  stables,  but  with  a  knowing 
eye,  examining  the  horses  (feet,  fetlocks,  and  all),  and 
without  further  preliminaries,  said,  "This  one  is  not 
worth  much,  and  that  one  I  would  not  give  two  cents 
for,  but  this  fellow,"  pointing  to  the  Count's  best 
racer,  "is  a  beauty." 

Mr.  Tweed's  amazement  at  this  amateur  (as  he  sup- 
posed him  to  be)  was  turned  into  admiration  when  Mr. 
Brent  walked  into  the  paddock,  asked  for  a  rope,  and 
proceeded  to  show  us  how  they  lasso  horses  in  America. 
Every  one  was  delighted  at  this  exhibition. 

Then  Mr.  Tweed  brought  out  the  most  unruly  horse 
he  had,  which  none  of  the  EngHsh  or  German  grooms 

398 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

could  mount.  Mr.  Brent  advanced  cautiously,  and 
with  a  few  coaxing  words  got  the  horse  to  stand  quiet 
long  enough  for  him  to  pass  his  hand  caressingly  over 
his  neck.  But  putting  the  saddle  on  him  was  another 
matter;  the  horse  absolutely  refused  to  be  saddled. 
So  what  did  our  American  friend  do  but  give  one  mighty 
spring  and  land  on  the  horse's  bare  back.  He  dug  his 
strong  legs  into  the  sides  of  the  horse,  and  though  the 
horse  kicked  and  plunged  for  a  while,  it  succumbed 
finally  and  was  brought  in  tame  and  meek. 

Nothing  could  have  pleased  the  Count  more  than  this, 
and  the  rest  of  us  were  lost  in  admiration. 

Mr.  Brent  invited  all  the  stable-boys  en  bloc  to  come 
over  to  America  to  see  him ;  he  guessed  he  "and  the  boys 
could  teach  them  a  trick  or  two." 

After  luncheon  Mr.  Brent  wanted  us  all  to  come  out 
on  the  lawn  to  be  photographed,  particularly  the  Count- 
ess, and  said  to  the  young  Count,  "You  tackle  the 
missis  [meaning  the  Countess],  and  I'll  get  the  others." 

Of  course  no  one  refused.  How  could  we  resist  such 
a  charmer?  Who  could  ever  have  believed  that  this 
simple,  unaffected  youth  could  have  so  completely  won 
all  hearts? 

He  said  to  the  Countess  while  "fbdng"  her  for  the 
group,  "I  wanted  you,  because  you  remind  me  so  of 
my  dear  old  mother."  The  Countess  actually  purred 
with  ecstasy;  but  I  don't  think  she  would  have  Hked 
to  be  compared  to  any  "old"  thing  (mother  or  not)  by 
anybody  else.  In  this  case  she  merely  looked  up  at 
him  and  smiled  sweetly,  and  as  for  the  blase,  stately 
Count,  he  simply  would  not  let  him  out  of  his  sight. 

At  last  the  group  was  arranged  according  to  Mr. 

399 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Brent's  ideas;  the  host  and  hostess  in  the  center,  while 
the  others  clustered  around  them. 

"Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  please  look  pleasant," 
said  Mr.  Brent,  and  we  all  took  the  attitude  we  remem- 
bered to  have  looked  well  in  on  some  former  occasion, 
and  hoped  we  looked  "pleasant,"  and  that  "mother," 
when  contemplating  us,  would  approve  of  us. 

The  Count's  birthday  happened  to  be  on  one  of 
these  days.  Mr.  Brent,  who  had  intended  to  leave,  was 
urged  by  both  him  and  the  Countess  to  stay.  The 
young  Count  said,  "Papa  would  be  really  unhappy  if 
you  went  away."  "That's  real  nice  of  him;  you  bet 
I'll  stay,  then."  On  the  day  itself  he  was  all-pervading. 
It  was  he  who  hung  the  heavy  garlands  and  wreaths 
on  the  highest  poles,  agile  as  a  cat,  and  draped  the  flags 
about  the  escutcheons  placed  everywhere.  He  helped 
the  ladies  arrange  the  flowers  in  the  innumerable  vases 
in  the  salons.  He  it  was  who  led  the  applause  when 
the  deputation  of  young  people  from  the  village  made 
their  speech,  and  when  the  Count  responded,  in  his 
most  dignified  and  courtly  manner,  Mr.  Brent  cried 
out,  in  a  most  enthusiastic  voice,  "Good  for  you!" 

In  the  evening  there  were  visits  from  all  the  sur- 
rounding neighborhood;  the  ladies  wore  tiaras  and  all 
their  jewels,  and  the  gentlemen  all  their  decorations; 
there  was  a  grand  supper  in  the  state  dining-room. 
Although  I  suppose  it  was  the  first  time  Mr.  Brent  had 
ever  seen  such  a  sight,  he  did  not  seem  in  the  least 
astonished.  He  circulated  about  the  distinguished  com- 
pany and  made  himself  most  agreeable  indiscriminately 
to  young  and  old.  He  was  in  full  glory,  and  certainly 
was  the  life  of  the  evening,  which  finished  brilliantly 

400 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

with  a  grand  display  of  fireworks  set  off  from  the 
tower,  so  that  they  could  be  seen  from  far  and  near. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Brent  left.  When  he  bade  me  good- 
by  he  said:  "Good-by,  ma'am.  If  I  have  had  a  good 
time  here,  I  owe  it  all  to  you,"  "Oh  no,  you  don't!" 
I  said.  "You  owe  it  all  to  yourself,  and  you  may 
say  to  your  mother,  from  me,  that  you  won  all  hearts." 

He  sighed  and  turned  away  his  head,  giving  my  hand 
an  extra  squeeze,  "If  you  ever  come  to  Colorado,  just 
ask  any  one  for  Johnny  Brent,  and  if  I  don't  stand  on 
my  head  for  you  it  '11  be  because  I've  lost  it." 

His  leave-taking  of  the  Countess  was  almost  pa- 
thetic. He  held  her  hand  long  and  tenderly,  and  said, 
"I  can't  find  any  word,  ma'am — I  mean.  Countess — but 
— thank  you,  thank  you,  that's  all  I  can  say." 

And  the  Countess  (we  thought  she  would  faint)  put 
her  hand  on  his  shoulder.  He  bent  his  head,  and  she 
kissed  him  on  his  forehead;  and  he  (were  the  heavens 
going  to  fall  ?)  stooped  down  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

The  Count  said:  "Good-by,  my  boy.  Come  again  to 
see  us" — and  going  to  the  walls  where  his  collection  of 
pistols  hung,  took  one  of  them  and  handed  it  to  him. 
"This  will  remind  you  of  us,  but  don't  kill  any  one  with 
it." 

"Never,"  said  Mr.  Brent.  "I  will  hang  it  round  my 
neck." 

Thus  departed  our  American  hero,  for  who  but  a  hero 
could  have  stormed  such  a  fortress  and  broken  down  all 
the  traditional  barriers? 

A  day  or  two  later  we  received  a  visit  from  royalty, 
in  the  person  of  Prince  Frederick  Charles  of  Prussia. 

In. the  evening  we  played  a  wonderful  game  called 

401 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

taroc,  which  was  very  intricate  and  almost  impossible 
to  learn.  Old  Baron  Kessler,  who  undertook  to  teach 
it  to  me,  got  so  sleepy  that  he  actually  yawned  in  my 
face. 

This  Baron  Kessler  is  quite  a  character — very  clever, 
very  artistic,  very  musical,  and,  strange  to  say,  very 
superstitious.  For  instance,  he  wears  an  old  waist- 
coat which  has  certain  magical  grease-spots  on  Fridays; 
on  Mondays  his  purse  must  be  in  the  left  pocket  of  his 
coat,  on  Thursdays  in  his  right  pocket.  He  drinks 
nine  times  before  twelve  o'clock  on  special  days,  and 
has  a  cigar-case  for  each  different  day  of  the  week.  He 
hates  losing  at  cards,  and  when  he  does  it  is  quite  an 
affair;  and  I  am  not  sure  that  prayers  are  not  offered 
up  for  him  by  his  family  in  the  chapel  on  his  baronial 
estates. 

The  last  thing  I  saw  was  a  vision  of  Herr  Lenning 
(the  head  butler),  who  is  sometimes  a  little  shaky  him- 
self, helping  the  Baron  up  the  stairs.  Possibly  it  was 
the  evening  of  the  nine-drink  morning. 

Next  day  we  all  left,  except  the  old  Baron,  who  for 
reasons  of  his  own  remained. 

Weimar,  September,  18^4. 

Dear  M., — I  thought  it  would  be  a  good  idea  to  go 
to  Weimar,  the  place  par  excellence  to  study  German, 
the  Germans,  and  their  literature;  and,  moreover,  my 
boy  might  go  to  school  there.  Mrs.  Kingsland  had  given 
me  a  letter  to  the  Grand  Duke  of  Saxe- Weimar,  and 
recommended  the  place,  not  because  she  knew  the  town, 
but  because  she  knew  the  Grand  Duke.  Besides,  had 
I  not  a  dear  cousin  who  had  written  a  most  attractive 

402 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

book  about  Weimar,  combined  with  Liszt  and  his  en- 
chantments ? 

I  was  all  enthusiasm. 

I  decided  to  go  to  the  hotel  which  Liszt  honored. 
The  proprietor  put  me  into  Liszt's  very  room,  where  a 
framed  letter  of  his  hung  on  the  wall.  .  .  .  This  did  not 
in  the  least  overcome  me,  as  I  had  several  of  Liszt's 
letters  at  home.  But  what  did  overcome  me  was  that 
I  was  charged  four  times  the  price  of  any  other  hotel, 
on  Liszt's  account! 

Weimar  may  be  very  pleasant  in  the  season  when 
the  little  Court  sheds  its  mild  light  about;  but  out  of 
the  season,  especially  at  this  time  of  the  year,  when  there 
is  nothing  but  dried  and  fluttering  leaves,  students,  and 
dogs  in  the  streets,  I  found  it  woeful.  It  was  reeking 
of  Schiller  and  Goethe.  For  two  marks  you  can  have 
a  pretty  good  idea  of  how  these  great  men  lived  and 
had  their  being.  Everywhere  we  turned,  and  we  turned 
ever3rwhere,  there  were  statues,  busts,  autographs, 
writing-desks,  beds,  and  wash-stands  which  had  belonged 
to  them.  I  admired  everything  until  my  vocabulary 
of  exclamations  was  exhausted  and  my  head  whirled. 

I  told  Howard,  as  young  as  he  was,  I  would  not  have 
him  Goethed  and  Schillered,  as  he  certainly  would  be 
if  he  stayed  here;  so  I  changed  my  plans  and  made  up 
my  mind  to  accept  the  invitation  of  my  friend  the 
Countess  Westphal  to  make  her  a  visit  at  her  chateau 
in  Westphalia.  We  took  a  train  which  dropped  us  at  her 
station,  where  she  met  us  and  drove  us  to  Furstenberg. 

Westphalia  is  renowned  for  its  hams.  Perhaps  you 
don't  know  this,  therefore  I  tell  you.  It  is  also  renowned 
for  the  independent  spirit  of  the  Westphalians. 

403 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

FURSTENBERG,   1874. 

Dear  M., — This  chateau  is  a  fine  old  castle,  with 
rounded  towers  and  mysterious  passages,  and  has  a 
village  tucked  on  to  it.  The  family  consists  of  the 
Countess,  the  Count,  and  three  children,  a  tutor,  a 
governess,  and  everything  which  belongs  to  the  old 
families  and  their  traditions.  The  mysterious  passages 
possessed  no  ghosts,  for  which  I  was  sorry,  though  my 
maid  (a  timid  and  naive  old  German  maiden)  thought 
that  she  heard  "things"  at  night  when  she  came  up 
the  dark,  winding  stone  staircase  which  led  to  my 
room. 

Life  passed  quietly  at  Furstenberg.  Countess  West- 
phal  and  I  amused  ourselves  with  music  and  embroid- 
ery and  listening  to  the  Count's  report  of  his  hunting 
expeditions. 

One  day,  in  a  spasm  of  energy,  she  proposed  to  take 

me  to  see  a  friend  of  hers.  Countess  B ,  who,  she 

said,  lived  quite  near.  We  would  spend  the  night, 
returning  the  next  day.  She  thought  it  would  be  a  very 
pleasant  and  entertaining  little  excursion  for  us. 

She  telegraphed  to   Countess  B that  we  were 

coming  without  maids,  and  with  only  necessary  baggage; 
and  my  maid  immediately  went  to  work  to  pack  what 
she  considered  necessary  for  this  visit.  She  put  a  dinner- 
dress,  with  high  and  low  waists,  as  the  occasion  might 
require,  an  extra  day-dress,  and  all  kinds  of  accessories, 
filling  a  good-sized  trunk. 

We  started  early  the  next  morning.  Countess  West- 
phal  was  full  of  happy  expectations;  so  was  I.  We  were 
four  hours  on  the  way  before  we  reached  our  destination ; 

404 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

but  Countess  Westphal  cheerfully  remarked  that  time 
was  of  no  consequence. 

On  our  arrival  at  the  forlorn  little  station  I  looked 
in  vain  for  the  lordly  chariot  I  thought  would  be  wait- 
ing for  us.  Countess  Westphal  seemed  astonished  also, 
but  with  her  usual  good-nature  accounted  for  the  ab- 
sence of  the  chariot  by  saying  that  her  friend  could 
not  possibly  have  received  the  telegram.  We  lingered 
about,  hoping  that  some  vehicle  would  appear;  but  as 
none  did  so,  Countess  Westphal  started  off  to  find  one, 
and  she  finally  succeeded  in  tempting  a  man,  for  the  vast 
sum  of  four  marks,  to  drive  us  to  the  schloss. 

After  the  coachman  had  gathered  the  reins  off  the 
back  of  the  old,  rickety  horse,  I  leaned  back  in  my  seat 
and  pictured  to  myself  what  this  beautiful  schloss  we 
were  going  to  would  be  like. 

Of  course,  it  would  have  a  moat  around  it  (all  old 
castles  do) ;  it  would  have  all  the  modern  comforts 
combined  with  the  traditions  of  past  glories;  it  would 
have  avenues  of  grand  old  trees  and  marble  statues, 
and  terraces  leading  into  Italian  gardens,  and  so  forth. 
In  fact,  my  imagination  got  so  riotous  that  I  forgot  to 
look  at  the  treeless,  muddy  roads,  and  I  never  noticed 
the  wrenching  of  the  ancient  landau  in  which  we  were. 

As  we  were  jolted  over  the  desolate  landscape,  Count- 
ess Westphal  tried  to  tell  me  the  family  history  of  the 

B s,  but  I  only  gathered  bits  of  it  here  and  there; 

such  as  that  he  was  the  fourth  son  of  a  very  distin- 
guished father  and  mother,  and  had  no  prospect  worth 
speaking  of,  except  the  prospect  of  the  dreary  place  we 
were  careering  over;  that  they  never  left  their  native 
heath  and  had  no  children,  and  that  they  lived  on  their 

27  405 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF   MEMORY 

estate  (being  the  only  thing  they  had  to  Hve  on) ,  and  so 
forth  and  so  forth,  all  of  which  went  in  at  the  ear  next 
the  Countess  and  went  out  at  the  ear  next  the  road. 

Finally  we  spied  the  schloss.  It  had  been  a  convent 
in  some  former  century,  and  still  had  iron  bars  on  the 
windows.  We  drove  through  a  muddy  lane,  passing  a 
sort  of  barn  with  grated  loopholes,  and  stopped  before 
a  courtyard  filled  with  chickens  and  geese;  on  the  left 
was  a  pigsty,  smelling  not  at  all  like  Westphalian  hams, 
and  on  the  other  side  a  cow-stable.  In  front  was  the 
schloss  and  the  lady  of  the  manor,  the  honorable 
Countess  herself,  on  the  steps,  quite  by  chance,  so  it 
seemed.  She  led  us  proudly  into  the  salon.  A  large 
bunch  of  keys  hung  at  her  girdle.  I  wondered  why  she 
needed  so  many!  After  the  coal-bin,  wine-vault,  and 
sugar-bowl,  and  linen-closet  had  been  locked  up,  what 
more  did  she  need  to  lock  up?  There  was  no  mention 
that  the  telegram  had  been  received.     Strange! 

Count  B was  not  there,  "but  would  be  coming 

soon."  I  felt  that  I  could  wait.  The  salon  was  of  the 
kind  that  one  often  sees  in  houses  where  the  mistress, 
having  no  children  and  plenty  of  time,  embroiders  things. 
Every  possible  object  had  a  coat  of  arms  and  huge 
crowns  embroidered  on  it,  so  that  you  could  never  forget 
that  you  were  in  the  house  of  ancient  nobility,  which  had 
the  right  to  impose  its  crowns  on  you.  All  the  chairs, 
tables,  sideboards,  and  things  on  the  walls  were  made 
out  of  the  horns  of  stags  and  other  animals  the  Count 
had  shot.  Sometimes  the  chairs  were  covered  with 
the  skin  of  the  same,  minus  the  hair,  which  was  missing 
and  moth-eaten  in  spots. 

I  was  taken  up-stairs  to  my  bedroom,  and  I  was 

406 


IN   THE   COURTS   OF   MEMORY 

thankful  to  see  that  the  horns  and  crowns  had  nearly 
given  out  before  they  finished  furnishing  the  first  story, 
and  that  I  had  an  ordinary  middle-class  chair  to  sit  on. 
There  were  many  pictures  of  Madonnas  and  saints, 
from  which  I  inferred  that  our  hosts  were  Catholics,  and 
a  prie-dieu,  which,  strange  to  say,  was  made  of  horns; 
and  the  mat  in  front  of  my  bed  was  a  blaze  of  the  united 
coats  of  arms  and  two  crowns!  So  she  was  a  Countess 
born,  which  accounted  for  the  doubleness. 

We  were  obliged  to  make  le  tour  du  proprietaire,  and, 
of  course,  as  there  was  no  other  place  to  take  us  to, 
we  went  to  the  stables.  There  we  admired  the  two  cows 
(Stella  and  Bella)  with  horns.  They  had  their  names 
painted  in  blue  and  white  over  their  respective  heads, 
but  they  had  no  crowns. 

Then  the  Count  appeared  in  very  nice  clothes.  I 
fancy,  while  we  had  been  admiring  Stella  and  Bella, 
he  had  been  changing  his  boots.  Owing  to  these  fresh 
boots  we  were  spared  the  pigsties.     On  our  return  to 

the  house  Countess  B said,  "You  know,  we  don't 

dress  for  dinner."  I  thought  with  dismay  of  my  trunk 
laden  with  all  its  superfluous  contents,  and  what  a  bore 
the  bringing  of  it  had  been,  and  the  opinion  my  maid 
would  pass  on  our  noble  hosts,  who  "don't  dress  for 
dinner,"  when  she  unpacked  the  undisturbed  finery 
which  she  had  thought  indispensable. 

After  dinner  the  conversation  was  chiefly  pastoral, 
of  the  kind  I  do  not  join  in  because  I  hate  it.  How 
many  chickens  had  died,  how  Bella  and  Stella  had  borne 
last  winter's  cold,  how  many  sacks  of  potatoes  had  been 
spoiled,  etc.  My  Countess  enjoyed  it  immensely,  and 
sat  on  a  horny  chair  and  sympathized.     Our  host  took 

407 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

pity  on  me  and  taught  me  a  patience.  I  had  known  it  all 
my  life  as  "the  idiot's  delight,"  but  I  pretended  I  had 
never  heard  of  it  before,  and  he  had  the  satisfaction 
of  thinldng  he  was  entertaining  me — which  he  wasn't! 
On  the  contrary,  Job's  patience  never  could  have 
equaled  this  one;  the  Count  talked  French  fluently. 
The  dinner  was  not  good,  nor  was  it  frugal. 

The  Count  said,  "Nous  n'avons  que  le  stricte  neces- 
saire,  rien  de  plus." 

The  Countess  said,  in  English,  "One  can't  have  in 
the  country  all  that  one  wants." 

I  could  not  help  feeling  that  one  could  not  have  even 
the  half  of  what  one  wanted,  and  more  than  once  I 
caught  myself  thinking,  "None  but  the  brave  deserve 
this  fare."  They  noticed  if  you  took  a  second  helping, 
and  you  felt  that  they  made  a  mental  note  if  your 
glass  was  filled  more  than  once  with  wine.  However, 
it  was  all  very  nice,  and  they  were  very  kind,  good 
people.  It  was  not  the  Count's  fault  if  the  stags  he 
killed  had  too  many  horns,  neither  was  it  the  Countess's 
fault  that  time  hung  heavy  on  her  hands  and  em- 
broidery occupied  them. 

Fortunately  we  would  go  away  next  day,  so  what  did 
it  matter?  But  getting  away  was  a  very  different  thing 
from  coming.  When  the  Countess  Westphal  suggested 
it,  and  said  that  we  intended  to  take  a  certain  train,  the 
faces  of  our  hosts  presented  a  blank  look  of  apprehen- 
sion! Their  horses  were  plowing!  What  should  we 
do?  The  doctor,  they  said,  who  lived  in  the  village, 
had  a  carriage,  but  the  horse  was  sick;  there  was,  how- 
ever, the  schimmel  of  the  baker,  which,  fortunately,  was 
in  good  health,  and  perhaps,  in  conjunction  with   the 

408 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

wagon  of  the  doctor,  one  could  manage.  It  sounded  like 
a  gigantic  exercise  of  Ollendorff: 

"Avez-vous  le  cheval  du  boulanger?" 

"Non,  mais  j'ai  le  Soulier  du  boucher,"  etc. 

After  what  seemed  an  eternity,  the  wagon  of  the 
doctor  appeared,  so  did  the  schimmel.  The  wagon  of 
the  doctor,  usually  dragged  by  two  animals,  had  a  pole 
in  the  middle,  to  which  the  schimmel  was  attached, 
giving  him  a  very  sidelong  gait.  The  question  now  was, 
who  was  to  drive  the  schimmel  attached  to  the  pole? 

The  young  man  who  milked  the  cows,  killed  the  pigs, 
dressed  the  Count,  picked  the  fruit,  drove  the  Countess, 
waited  at  table,  served  everybody,  did  everything,  and 
smelled  awfully  of  the  stables — could  he  be  spared? 

Well,  he  was  spared,  and  off  we  started  majestically, 
but  sideways,  waving  a  courtly  adieu.  We  reached  home 
in   a   drenching   rain,   wondering  what   on   earth   ever 

possessed  us  to  want. to  go  to  visit  the  noble  B s. 

I  don't  think  I  ever  want  to  see  that  establishment 
again,  and  I  don't  think  I  ever  shall. 

FuRSTENBERG,  December. 

Dear  M., — The  Duke  of  Nassau  had  promised  to 
come  here  to  shoot  wild  boars,  for  which  this  forest  is 
celebrated.  Count  Westphal  sent  invitations  far  and 
wide  to  call  his  hunting  friends  together.  Before  the 
arrival  of  the  Duke,  carriage  after  carriage  entered  the 
courtyard;  oceans  of  fur-coats,  gun-cases,  valises,  bags, 
and  fur-lined  rugs  were  thrown  about  in  the  hall,  to  be 
sorted  out  afterward.  Then  the  Duke  drove  up  in  a  sleigh 
with  four  horses,  his  aide-de-camp,  two  postilions,  and 

409 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

a  friend,  both  of  them  so  wrapped  up  in  pelisses  and 
immense  fur-caps  that  you  could  only  see  the  tips  of 
their  red  noses,  like  danger  signals  on  railroads.  No 
wonder !  They  had  had  three  hours  of  this  cold  sleigh- 
ride! 

The  quiet  old  schloss  was  transformed.  Each  guest 
had  his  own  servant  and  chasseur.  The  servants  helped 
to  wait  at  dinner.  The  chasseurs  cleaned  the  guns, 
lounged  about  smoking  their  pipes,  and  looking  most 
picturesque  in  their  Tyrolean  hats,  with  their  leather 
gaiters,  short  green  jackets,  and  leather  belts,  in  which 
they  carried  their  hunting-knives  and  cartridges. 

His  Highness  (who  is  very  short  and  what  one  calls 
thick-set)  was  accompanied  by  a  secretary,  a  chasseur,  a 
valet,  two  postilions,  two  grooms,  and  four  horses.  He 
had  six  guns,  six  trunks,  and  endless  coats  of  different 
warmth.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  cigar-cases,  pipes, 
photographs,  writing-paper  (of  his  own  monogram), 
and  masses  of  etceteras  were  spread  about  in  his  salon, 
as  if  he  could  not  even  look  in  his  mirror  without  having 
these  familiar  objects  before  his  eyes. 

At  twelve  o'clock,  high — very  high — lunch  was  served. 
The  servants  brought  in  the  eatables  in  monstrous 
quantities,  and  disappeared;  the  guests  helped  them- 
selves and  one  another,  and  when  without  occupation 
fed  the  fire,  where  logs  smoldered  all  day. 

At  a  reasonable  hour,  after  cigars  and  cigarettes  had 
been  smoked,  the  sleighs  were  ordered  to  be  in  readi- 
ness in  the  courtyard.  Thirty  or  forty  treibers  (beaters) 
had  been  out  since  early  morn.  The  Count  has  fourteen 
thousand  acres  to  be  beaten,  therefore  an  early  start 
was  necessary. 

410 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  hunters  swallowed  a  bitter  pill  when  they  asked 
us  ladies  to  accompany  them;  but  they  knew  their 
hostess  would  not  let  them  go  without  her  at  least,  so 
why  not  take  the  tame  bores  while  shooting  the  wild 
ones? 

They  portioned  off  one  lady  and  one  gentleman  to 
each  sleigh.  These  sleighs  are  very  small,  and  contrived 
for  the  confusion  of  mankind.  You  sit  in  a  bag  of  sheep's 
skin,  or  perhaps  the  bag  is  simply  two  whole  skinned 
sheep  sewed  together.  You  must  stretch  your  legs,  thus 
pinioned  on  the  sides,  out  as  far  as  they  reach ;  then  the 
driver  puts  a  board  over  them,  on  which  he  perches 
himself,  nearly  over  the  horse's  tail,  and  off  you  go.  I 
cannot  imagine  what  a  man  does  with  his  legs  if  he  has 
very  long  ones. 

The  poor  horses  are  so  dressed  up  that,  if  they  could 
see  themselves,  they  would  not  know  if  they  were  toy 
rabbits  or  Chinese  pagodas.  Over  the  horse  is  a  huge 
net,  which  not  only  covers  him  from  head  to  tail,  but 
protects  those  in  the  sleigh  from  the  snow  flying  in 
their  faces.  I  should  think  that  this  net  would  be 
excellent  in  summer  to  keep  the  flies  off;  it  does  cer- 
tainly suggest  mosquito-netted  beds  and  summer  heat. 
Over  the  net  is  an  arrangement  which  looks  like  a  brass 
lyre,  adorned  with  innumerable  brass  bells,  which  jingle 
and  tinkle  as  we  trot  along,  and  make  noise  enough  to 
awake  all  the  echoes  in  the  forest.  On  each  side  of  the 
horse's  head  hang  long,  white,  horse-hair  tails. 

What  did  we  look  like  as  we  proceeded  on  our  way? 
A  procession  of  eight  sleighs,  combining  a  ranz  des  vaches, 
a  summer  bed,  and  an  antiquary  shop! 

Arrived  at  the  rendezvous,  Count  Westphal  placed 

411 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

his  guests  by  different  trees.  The  best  place,  of  course, 
fell  to  the  Duke,  and  I  had  the  honor  to  stand  behind 
him  and  his  gun.  I  hoped  that  neither  would  go  off! 
The  Duke  is  very  near-sighted  and  wears  double-barreled 
spectacles,  which  have  windows  on  the  sides,  so  that  he 
can  look  around  the  corner  without  turning  his  head. 

Every  one  was  requested  to  be  perfectly  quiet,  other- 
wise there  would  be  disaster  all  along  the  line.  I  could 
keep  quiet  very  well,  for  a  time;  but  the  back  view  of  a 
man  crowned  with  a  Tyrolean  hat,  and  terminating  in 
a  monstrous  pair  of  overshoes  lined  with  straw,  lost  its 
interest  after  a  while,  and  I  began  to  look  at  the  scenery. 
It  must  be  lovely  here  in  the  summer.  The  valley, 
where  a  little  brook  meandered  gracefully  through  the 
meadow  (now  ice  and  snow),  bordered  on  both  sides 
by  high  pine  woods,  must  then  be  covered  with  flowers 
and  fresh  green  grass,  and  full  of  light  and  shadow. 

His  Highness  and  I  were  under  a  splendid  oak,  and 
there  we  stood  waiting  for  something  to  happen.  The 
Duke,  the  oak,  and  I  were  silence  personified.  A  dead 
branch  would  crack,  or  the  trunks  of  smaller  and  igno- 
rant pines  would  knock  together,  and  the  Duke  would 
look  around  the  corner  and  say  "Chut!"  in  a  low  voice, 
thinking  I  was  playing  a  tattoo  on  the  tree. 

"Now  the  beaters  are  on  the  scent!"  he  said.  After 
this  I  hardly  dared  to  breathe. 

"They  have  to  drive  the  boar  with  the  wind,"  he 
whispered. 

"I  thought  they  did  it  with  sticks,"  I  answered  in  a 
low  tone. 

To  this  remark  he  did  not  pay  the  slightest  attention. 
Between  a  sneeze  and  a  cough — we  were  rapidly  catching 

412 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

our  deaths — he  said,  under  his  breath,  ' '  If  they  smell  us 
they  go  away." 

The  treihers  work  in  couples,  Count  Westphal  leading 
them.  It  is  not  etiquette  for  the  host  to  shoot;  he 
must  leave  all  the  chances  of  glory  to  his  guests.  Among 
the  treihers  were  various  servants  and  chasseurs  carrying 
extra  guns  and  short  daggers  for  the  final  despatch  {le 
coup  de  grdce).  We  heard  them  coming  nearer  and 
nearer,  but  we  saw  no  boar.  Many  other  animals  came 
wonderingly  forward:  some  foxes,  trailing  their  long 
tails  gracefully  over  the  snow,  looked  about  them  and 
trotted  off ;  a  furtive  deer  cautiously  peered  around  with 
ears  erect  and  trotted  off  also;  but  it  is  not  for  such  as 
these  we  stand  ankle-deep  in  the  snow,  shivering  with 
cold  and  half  frozen.  A  shot  now  would  spoil  all  the 
sport.  One  has  a  longing  to  talk  when  one  is  told  to 
be  quiet.  I  can't  remember  ever  having  thought  of  so 
many  clever  things  I  wanted  to  say  as  when  I  stood 
behind  the  ducal  back — things  that  would  be  forever 
lost!  And  I  tried  to  enter  them  and  fix  them  in  my 
brain,  to  be  produced  later;  but,  alas! 

The  Duke  (being,  as  I  said,  very  short-sighted)  came 
near  shooting  one  of  his  own  servants.  The  man  who 
carried  his  extra  gun  had  tied  the  two  ends  of  a  sack 
in  which  he  carried  various  things,  and  put  it  over  his 
head  to  keep  his  ears  warm.  Just  as  the  Duke  was 
raising  his  gun,  thinking  that  if  it  was  not  a  boar  it 
was  something  else,  I  ventured  a  gentle  whisper,  "C'est 
votre  domestique,  Monseigneur. "  "Merci!"  he  whis- 
pered back,  in  much  the  same  tone  he  would  have  used 
had  I  restored  him  a  dropped  pocket-handkerchief. 

Finally  (there  must  be  an  end  to  everything)  we  saw 

413 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

beneath  us,  on  the  plains,  three  wild  boars  leaping  in 
the  snow,  followed  by  a  great  many  more.  They  had 
the  movements  of  a  porpoise  as  he  dives  in  and  out  of 
the  water,  and  of  an  ungraceful  and  hideous  pig  when 
hopping   along. 

The  Duke  fired  his  two  shots,  and  let  us  hope  two  boars 
fell.  The  others  flew  to  right  and  left,  except  one  ugly 
beast,  who  came  straight  toward  our  own  tree.  I  must 
say  that  in  that  moment  my  little  heart  was  in  my 
throat,  and  I  realized  that  the  tree  was  too  high  to  climb 
and  too  small  to  hide  behind.  The  Duke  said,  in  a  husky 
voice,  "Don't  move,  for  God's  sake,  even  if  they  come 
toward  us!" 

This  was  cheery!  Abraham's  blind  obedience  was 
nothing  to  mine!  Here  was  I,  a  stranger  in  a  foreign 
land,  about  to  sacrifice  my  life  on  the  shrine  of  a  wild 
boar!  Count  Metternich,  behind  the  next  tree,  fired 
and  killed  the  brute,  so  I  was  none  the  worse  save  for 
a  good  fright.  It  was  high  time  to  kill  him,  for  he  be- 
gan charging  at  the  beaters,  and  threatened  to  make  it 
lively  for  us;  and  if  Count  Metternich  had  not,  in  the 
nick  of  time,  sent  a  bullet  into  him,  I  doubt  whether 
I  should  be  writing  this  little  account  to  you  at  this 
moment. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  shouting,  and  the  hounds 
were  baying  at  the  top  of  their  lungs,  and  every  one  was 
talking  at  the  same  time  and  explaining  things  which 
every  one  knew.  Counting  the  guests,  the  servants, 
the  trackers,  the  dilettantes,  there  were  seventy  people 
on  the  spot ;  and  I  must  say,  though  we  were  transis  de 
Jroid,  it  was  an  exhilarating  sight — the  snow  is  such  a 
beautiful  mise  en  scene.     However,  we  were  glad  to  get 

414 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

back  into  the  sheep-skin  bags  and  draw  the  fur  rugs  up 
to  our  noses,  and  though  I  had  so  many  brilliant  things 
to  say  under  the  tree  I  could  not  think  of  one  of  them 
on  our  way  home. 

Fourteen  big,  ugly  boars  were  brought  and  laid  to 
rest  in  the  large  hall,  on  biers  of  pine  branches,  with  a 
pine  branch  artistically  in  the  mouth  of  each.  They 
weighed  from  one  to  three  hundred  pounds  and  smelled 
abominably ;  but  they  were  immensely  admired  by  their 
slayers,  who  pretended  to  recognize  their  own  booty 
(don't  read  "beauty,"  for  they  were  anything  but  beau- 
tiful) and  to  claim  them  for  their  own.  Each  hunter 
has  the  right  to  the  jaws  and  teeth,  which  they  have 
mounted  and  hang  on  their  walls  as  trophies. 

Count  Westphal  has  his  smoking-room  filled  to  over- 
flowing Vvdth  jaws,  teeth,  and  chamois  heads,  etc.  They 
make  a  most  imposing  display,  and  add  feathers  to  his 
already  well-garnished  cap. 

Howard  said,  in  French,  to  the  Duke,  in  his  sweet 
little  voice,  looking  up  into  his  face,  *  *  I  am  so  sorry  for 
you!" 

"Why?"  inquired  the  Duke. 

"Because  the  Prussians  have  taken  your  country." 

We  all  trembled,  not  knowing  how  the  Duke  would 
take  this ;  but  he  took  it  very  kindly,  and,  patting  Howard 
on  the  back,  said:  "Thank  you,  my  little  friend.  I  am 
sorry  also,  but  there  is  nothing  to  be  done;  but  thank 
you  all  the  same."     And  his  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

The  next  day  he  gave  Howard  his  portrait,  with,  "Pour 
mon  petit  ami,  Howard,  d'un  pauvre  chasse. — Adolf, 
Due  de  Nassau."     Very  nice  of  him,  wasn't  it? 

In  the  evening  they  played  cards,  with  interruptions 

415 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

such  as  "E'er  verfluchte  Kerl,"  meaning  "a  boar  tliat 
refused  to  be  shot,"  or  'T  could  easily  have  killed  him 
if  my  gun,"  etc.,  till  every  one,  sleepy  and  tired,  had  no 
more  conversation  to  exchange,  and  the  Duke  left,  as 
he  said,  to  write  letters,  and  we  simpler  mortals  did  not 
mind  saying  that  we  were  dead  beat  and  went  to  bed. 
The  next  day  being  Sunday,  I  sang  in  the  little 
church  (Catholic,  of  course,  as  Westphalia  is  of  that 
religion).  The  organist  and  I  had  many  rehearsals  in 
the  schloss,  but  none  in  the  church,  so  I  had  never  made 
acquaintance  with  the  village  organ.  If  I  had,  I  don't 
think  I  should  have  chosen  the  Ave  Maria  of  Cheru- 
bini,  which  has  a  final  amble  with  the  organ,  sounding 
well  enough  on  the  piano;  but  on  that  particular  organ 
it  sounded  like  two  hens  cackling  and  chasing  each 
other.  I  had  to  mount  the  spiral  staircase  behind  the 
belfry  and  wobble  over  the  rickety  planks  before  reach- 
ing the  organ  -  loft.  Fortunately,  Count  Metternich 
went  with  me  and  promised  to  stay  with  me  till  the 
bitter  end;  at  any  rate,  he  piloted  me  to  the  loft.  The 
organ  was  put  up  in  the  church  when  the  church  was  built, 
in  the  year  Westphalia  asserted  herself,  whenever  that 
was;  I  should  say  B.C.  some  time.  It  was  probably 
good  at  that  time,  but  it  must  have  deteriorated  stead- 
ily ever  ^ince;  and  now,  in  this  year  of  grace,  owns  only 
one  row  of  keys,  of  which  several  notes  don't  work. 
There  are  several  pipes  which  don't  pipe,  and  an  octave 
of  useless  pedals,  which  the  organist  does  not  pretend 
to  work,  as  he  does  not  know  how.  However,  there 
is  no  use  describing  a  village  organ;  every  one  knows 
what  it  is.  Suffice  to  say  that  I  sang  my  Ave  Maria 
to  it,  and  the  Duke  and  my  hosts,  miles  below  me,  said 

^16 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

it  was  very  fine,  and  that  the  church  had  never  heard 
the  hke  before,  and  never  would  again.  Certainly  not 
from  me !  .  .  . 

The  village  itself  is  a  pretty  little  village  and  very 
quaint ;  it  has  belonged  to  the  schloss,  as  the  schloss  has 
to  it,  for  centuries.  The  houses  are  painted  white,  and 
the  beams  of  oak  are  painted  black. 

On  the  principal  cross-beams  are  inscriptions  from 
the  Bible,  cut  in  the  oak,  and  the  names  of  the  people 
who  built  the  house.  There  is  one:  "Joseph  and  Katin- 
ka,  worthy  of  the  grace  of  God,  on  whom  He  cannot 
fail  to  shower  blessings.  For  they  believe  in  Him." 
The  date  of  their  marriage  and  their  virtues  are  carved 
also  (fortunately  they  don't  add  the  names  of  all  their 
descendants).  Sometimes  the  sentences  are  too  long 
for  the  beam  over  the  door,  and  you  have  to  follow  their 
virtues  all  down  the  next  beam. 

This  is  perplexing  on  account  of  the  German  verb 
(which  is  like  dessert  at  dinner — the  best  thing,  but  at 
the  end),  and  gehaht  or  geworden  is  sometimes  as  far 
down  as  the  foot-scraper.  Some  houses  are  like  barns: 
one  roof  shelters  many  families,  having  their  little 
booths  under  one  covering,  and  they  sit  peacefully  at 
their  work  in  front  of  their  homes  smoking  the  pipe 
of  peace,  and  at  the  same  time  cure  the  celebrated  hams 
which  hang  from  the  ceiling.  I  won't  say  all  hams 
are  cured  in  this  way,  because,  I  suppose,  there  are 
regular  establishments  which  cure  professionally.  But 
I  have  seen  many  family  hams  curing  in  these  barns. 

The  costumes  of  the  women  are  wonderful,  full  of 
complexities;  you  have  to  turn  them  around  before  you 
can  tell  if  she  is  a  man  or  a  woman ;  they  wear  hats  like 

417 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

a  coal-carrier  in  England,  pantaloons,  an  apron,  and — 
well !  the  Countess  had  a  woman  brought  to  the  schloss 
and  undressed,  so  that  we  could  see  how  she  was  dressed. 
I  ought  to  send  a  photograph,  because  I  can  never  de- 
scribe her.  There  is  a  bodice  of  black  satin,  short  in 
the  back,  over  a  plastron  of  pasteboard  of  the  same, 
and  a  huge  black-satin  cravat  sticking  out  on  both  sides 
of  her  cheeks,  a  wadded  skirt  of  blue  alpaca,  and  pink 
leg-of-mutton  sleeves.  I  can  make  nothing  of  this  de- 
scription when  I  read  it.     I  hope  you  can! 

Count  Metternich  entertained  us  all  the  afternoon 
talking  about  himself.  He  has  fought  with  the  Emperor 
Maximilian  in  Mexico,  and  when  he  speaks  of  him  the 
tears  roll  down  his  bronzed  cheeks.  He  has  fought  in 
all  Don  Carlos's  battles,  and  is  a  strong  partisan  of  the 
Carlist  party.  His  description  of  Don  Carlos  makes 
one  quite  like  him  (I  mean  Don  Carlos).  He  said  that 
Don  Carlos  goes  about  in  a  simple  black  uniform  and 
heret  (the  red  cap  of  the  Pyrenees),  with  the  gold  tassels 
and  the  Order  of  the  Golden  Fleece  on  his  neck  (I  call 
that  fantastic,  don't  you?).  During  his  campaign  he 
suddenly  swoops  down  upon  people,  no  matter  what 
their  condition  is,  and  immediately  there  is  a  sentinel 
placed  before  the  door.  The  consigne  is  not  strict :  any 
one  can  come  and  go  as  he  pleases:  photographers, 
autographers,  reporters,  without  hindrance,  and  there 
is  a  general  invitation  to  tea  at  headquarters.  He  has 
an  army  of  volunteers,  of  whom  the  Count  is  one.  The 
rations  are  one-half  pound  of  meat,  one-half  pound  of 
bread,  and  three-quarters  liter  of  Navarre  wine,  which 
the  Count  says  is  more  fit  to  eat  than  to  drink,  "it  is 
so  fat."     Navarre  furnishes  the  wine  gratis,  and  prom- 

418 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ises  to  furnish  twenty-four  thousand  rations  daily  as 
long  as  the  war  lasts.  The  artillery  is  "not  good," 
Count  Metternich  added,  but  the  officers  are  "colossal," 
a  word  in  German  that  expresses  everything. 

Count  Metternich  is  the  greatest  gentleman  jockey 
in  the  world;  he  has  not  got  a  whole  bone  in  his  body. 
They  call  him  der  Mexicano,  as  he  is  so  bronzed  and  dark- 
skinned  and  has  been  in  Mexico. 

But  he  cannot  rival  Count  Westphal,  who,  in  his  time, 
was  not  only  the  greatest  gentleman  jockey,  but  a  hero. 
At  a  famous  race,  where  he  was  to  ride  the  horse  of 
Count  Fiirstenberg,  he  fell,  breaking  his  collar-bone  and 
his  left  arm;  he  picked  himself  up  and  managed  to  re- 
mount his  horse.  He  held  the  reins  in  his  mouth,  and 
with  the  unbroken  arm  walloped  the  horse,  got  in  first, 
and  then  fainted  away. 

It  was  the  pluckiest  thing  ever  seen,  and  won  for  him 
not  only  the  race,  but  the  greatest  fame  and  his  Count- 
ess, who  made  him  promise  never  to  ride  in  a  race  again, 
and  he  never  has.  She  told  me  that  many  ladies  fainted 
and  men  wept,  so  great  was  the  excitement  and  enthu- 
siasm! Count  Fiirstenberg  had  a  bronze  statue  made 
of  the  horse,  and  it  stands  on  Count  Westphal's  table 
now,  and  is  an  everlasting  subject  of  conversation. 

The  Duke  invited  us  all  to  come  to  Lippspringe.  He 
and  all  the  hunting-men  have  clubbed  together  and  have 

hired  the  estate  from  the  Baron  B ,  who  owns  both 

house  and  country  and  is  fabulously  rich,  so  people  say. 
Here  these  gentlemen  (I  think  there  are  twenty  of  them) 
go  to  pass  two  months  every  year  to  hunt  foxes.  There 
are  forty  couples  of  foxhounds,  which  have  been  im- 
ported from  England. 

419 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

There  were  eight  of  us,  and  we  quite  filled  the  four- 
horse  break;  servants  and  baggage  followed  later.  We 
arrived  at  Paderborn,  a  thriving  and  interesting  town 
of  historical  renown  (see  Baedeker).  A  two  hours'  drive 
left  us  rather  cold  and  stiff,  but  we  lunched  on  the  car- 
riage to  save  time.  At  the  hotel  we  found  a  relay  of 
four  fresh  horses  harnessed  in  the  principal  street,  the 
English  grooms  exciting  great  admiration  by  their  neat 
get-up  and  their  well-polished  boots,  and  by  the  mas- 
terful manner  they  swore  in  English. 

After  racing  through  the  quiet  streets  at  a  tearing 
pace,  we  arrived  at  the  villa  (alias  club-house)  at  six 
o'clock,  in  time  to  dress  for  dinner  at  eight.  The 
gentlemen  appeared  in  regular  hunting-dress:  red  eve- 
ning coats,  white  buckskin  trousers,  top-boots,  white 
cravats,  and  white  vests;  the  ladies  were  decollclees  en 
grande  toilette. 

Our  dinner  lasted  till  ten  o'clock.  The  French  chef 
served  a  delicious  repast;  everything  was  faultless  even 
to  the  minutest  details;  the  servants,  were  powdered, 
plushed,  and  shod  to  perfection.  Then  we  went  to 
the  drawing-room,  where  cards,  smoking,  billiards,  and 
flirtation  went  on  simultaneously  until  the  small  hour 
of  one,  when  we  retired  to  our  rooms. 

Countess  Westphal  and  I  had  adjoining  rooms,  very 
prettily  furnished  in  chintz.  Everything  was  in  the 
most  English  style. 

It  is  the  correct  thing  here  to  affect  awful  clothes 
in  the  daytime.  The  Baron  {der  alte  Herr),  when  not 
hunting,  wears  an  Italian  brigand  costume  (short 
breeches,  tight  leggings,  stout  boots)  and  some  animal's 
front  teeth  sewed  on  his  Tyrolean  hat  to  hold  the  little 

420 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

feathers.  But  in  the  evening,  oh,  dear  me!  nothing  is 
equal  to  his  elegance. 

The  next  day  the  gentlemen  (twenty  in  number),  all 
splendidly  mounted  on  English  hunters,  rode  off  at 
eleven  o'clock,  masses  of  grooms  and  piqueurs,  with  lots 
of  hunting-horns  and  the  dogs.  We  ladies  followed  in 
the  break.  The  masters  of  the  hounds  were  already  at 
the  rendezvous  on  the  hill.  They  soon  started  a  fox, 
and  then  the  dogs  tore  off  yelping  and  barking,  and  the 
riders  riding  like  mad;  and  we  waited  in  the  carriages, 
sorry  not  to  be  with  them.  The  red  coats  looked  well 
against  the  background;  the  dogs,  all  of  the  same 
pattern,  were  rushing  about  in  groups  with  their  tails 
in  the  air;  but  while  our  eyes  were  following  them  the 
fox  ran  right  under  our  noses,  within  a  hair's-breadth  of 
our  wheels.  Of  course  the  dogs  lost  the  scent,  and 
there  was  a  general  standstill  until  another  fox  was 
routed  out,  and  off  they  flew  again.  Der  alte  Herr  is 
very  much  thought  of  in  these  parts;  he  was  the  only 
one  who  dared  oppose  the  House  of  Peers  in  Berlin  in 
the  question  of  war  with  Austria  in  1866,  and  made 
such  an  astounding  speech  that  he  was  obliged  to  retire 
from  poHtics  and  take  to  fox-hunting.  He  gave  the 
speech  to  me  to  read,  and — I — well! — I  didn't  read  it! 

The  Westphalians  seem  to  go  on  the  let-us-alone 
principle;  they  seem  to  be  anti-everything — from  Bis- 
marck and  Protestantism  downward.  I  sang  the  last 
evening  of  our  stay  here.  The  piano  belonging  to  this 
hunting-lodge  is  as  old  as  the  alte  Herr,  and  must 
have  been  here  for  years,  and  even  at  that  must  be  an 
heirloom.  The  keys  were  yellow  with  age  and  misuse, 
and  if  it  had  ever  been  in  tune  it  had  forgotten  all  about 
28  42J 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

it  now  and  was  out  of  it  altogether.  I  picked  the  notes 
out  which  were  still  good,  and  by  singing  Gounod's 
"Biondina"  in  a  loud  voice  and  playing  its  dashing 
accompaniment  with  gusto,  I  managed  to  keep  myself 
awake.  As  for  the  tired  hunters  who  had  been  in  the 
saddle  all  day,  they  were  so  worn  out  that  nothing  short 
of  a  brass  band  could  rouse  them  long  enough  for  them 
to  keep  their  eyes  open. 

The  next  day  we  bade  our  hosts  good-by  and,  thanking 
them  for  our  delightful  visit,  we  departed.  I  wonder  if 
the  gentlemen  liked  being  trespassed  upon  as  much  as 
we  did  who  did  the  trespassing.  However,  they  were 
polite  enough  to  say  that  they  had  never  enjoyed  any- 
thing so  much  as  our  visit,  and  especially  my  singing. 
What  humbugs!  I  was  polite  enough  not  to  say  that 
I  had  never  enjoyed  anything  so  little  as  singing  for 
sleepy  fox-hunters. 

Rome,  January,  1875. 

Dear  Mother, — I  am  here  in  Rome,  staying  with  my 
friends  the  Haseltines,  who  have  a  beautiful  apartment 
that  they  have  arranged  in  the  most  sumptuous  and 
artistic  manner  in  the  Palazzo  Altieri.  Mr.  Haseltine 
has  two  enormous  rooms  for  his  studio  and  has  filled  them 
with  his  faultless  pictures,  which  are  immensely  admired 
and  appreciated.     His  water-colors  are  perfection. 

I  have  met  many  of  your  friends  whom  you  will  be 
glad  to  hear  about:  to  begin  with,  the  Richard  Green- 
oughs,  our  cousins.  We  had  much  to  talk  about,  as  we 
had  not  seen  each  other  since  Paris,  when  he  made  that 
bust  of  me.  They  are  the  most  delightful  people,  so 
talented  in  their  different  ways,  and  are  full  of  interest 

422 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

in  everything  which  concerns  me.  She  has  just  pub- 
lished a  book  called  Mary  Magdalene,  which  I  think  is 
perfectly  wonderful. 

I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  William  Story  (the 
sculptor).  He  spoke  of  you  and  Aunt  Maria  as  his 
oldest  and  dearest  friends,  and  therefore  claimed  the 
right  to  call  me  Lillie. 

I  have  not  only  seen  him,  but  I  have  seen  Mrs.  Story, 
Miss  Story,  and  the  third  story  in  the  Palazzo  Barberini, 
where  they  live,  and  I  have  already  counted  many  times 
the  tiresome  one  hundred  and  twenty-two  steps  which 
lead  to  their  apartment,  and  have  dined  frequently  with 
them  in  their  chilly  Roman  dining-room.  This  room  is 
only  warmed  by  the  little  apparatus  which  in  Rome 
passes  for  a  stove.  It  has  a  thin  leg  that  sticks  out  of  a 
hole  in  the  side  of  the  house  and  could  warm  a  flea  at  a 
pinch. 

The  hay  on  the  stone  floor  made  the  thin  carpet 
warmer  to  my  cold  toes,  which,  in  their  evening  shoes, 
were  away  down  below  zero,  but  my  cold  and  bare  shoul- 
ders shivered  in  this  Greenland  icy-mountain  tempera- 
ture which  belongs  to  Roman  palaces.  This  was  before 
I  was  an  habituee;  but  after  I  had  become  one  I  wore, 
like  the  other  jewel-bedecked  dames,  woolen  stockings 
and  fur-lined  overshoes.  The  contrast  must  be  funny, 
if  one  could  see  above  board  and  under  board  at  the  same 
time. 

The  Storys  generally  have  a  lion  for  dinner  and  for 
their  evening  entertainments.  My  invitations  to  their 
dinners  always  read  thus:  "Dear  Mrs.  Moulton, — ^We 
are  going  to  have  (mentioning  the  lion)  to  dinner.  Will 
you  not  join  us,  and  if  you  would  kindly  bring  a  little 

4^3 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

music  it  would  be  such  a,"  etc.  No  beating  about  the 
bush  there!  The  other  evening  Miss  Hosmer — female 
rival  of  Mr.  Story  in  the  sculpturing  line — was  the  lion 
of  the  occasion,  and  was  three-quarters  of  an  hour  late, 
her  excuse  being  that  she  was  studying  the  problem  of 
perpetual  motion.  Mr.  Story,  who  is  a  wit,  said  he 
wished  the  motion  had  been  perpetuated  in  a  botta 
(which  is  Italian  for  cab). 

February  ist. 

Last  Thursday,  at  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  a  card 
was  brought  to  my  bedroom.  Imagine  my  astonish- 
ment when  I  read  the  name  of  Baroness  de  C ,  the 

wife  of  the  French  Ambassador  to  the  Vatican.  What 
could  she  want  at  that  early  hour?  I  had  heard  many 
stories  of  her  absent-mindedness.  I  thought  that  noth- 
ing less  than  being  very  absent-minded,  or  else  the  wish 
to  secure  my  help  for  some  charity  concert,  could  account 
for  this  matutinal  visit,  especially  as  I  knew  her  so 
slightly. 

To  my  great  surprise  she  had  only  come  to  invite  me 
to  dinner,  and  never  mentioned  the  word  charity  concert 
or  music.  I  thought  this  very  strange;  but  as  she  is  so 
distraite  she  probably  did  not  know  v/hat  time  of  day 
it  was,  and  imagined  she  was  making  an  afternoon  visit. 

One  of  the  stories  about  her  is  that  once  she  went  to  pay 
a  formal  call  on  one  of  her  colleagues,  and  stayed  on 
and  on  until  the  poor  hostess  was  in  despair,  as  it  was 
getting  late.  Suddenly  the  ambassadress  got  up  and 
said,  "Pardon,  dear  Madame,  I  am  very  much  engaged, 
and  if  you  have  nothing  further  to  say  to  me  I  should 
be  very  grateful  if  you  would  leave  me."     The  Baroness 

424 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

had  been  under  the  impression  that  she  was  in  her  own 
salon.  They  say  that,  one  day,  when  she  was  walking 
in  the  Vatican  gardens  with  the  Pope,  and  they  were 
talking  politics,  she  said  to  him,  "Oh,  all  this  will  be 
arranged  as  soon  as  the  Pope  dies!" 

Well,  we  went  to  the  dinner,  which  was  quite  a  large 
one,  and  among  the  guests  was  Signor  Tosti,  which 
would  seem  to  denote  that  there  was,  after  all,  "music 
in  the  air";  and  sure  enough,  shortly  after  dinner  the 
ambassadress  begged  me  to  sing  some  petite  chose,  and 
asked  Tosti  to  accompany  me.  Neither  of  us  refused, 
and  I  sang  some  of  his  songs  which  I  happened  to  know, 
and  some  of  my  own,  which  I  could  play  for  myself. 

However,  I  felt  myself  recompensed,  for  when  she 
thanked  me  she  asked  if  I  had  ever  been  present  at  any 
of  the  Pope's  receptions. 

I  told  her  that  I  had  not  had  the  opportunity  since 
I  had  been  here. 

"The  Pope  has  a  reception  to-morrow  morning," 
said  she.  "Would  you  care  to  go?  If  so,  I  should  be 
delighted  to  take  you." 

"Oh,"  I  said,  "that  is  the  thing  of  all  others  I  should 
like  to  do!" 

"Then,"  said  she,  "I  will  call  for  you  and  take  you 
in  my  carriage." 

This  function  requires  a  black  dress,  black  veil,  and 
a  general  funereal  appearance  and  gloveless  hands. 
Happily  she  did  not  forget,  but  came  in  her  coupe  at 
the  appointed  time  to  fetch  me,  and  we  drove  to  the 
Vatican. 

The  ambassadress  was  received  at  the  entrance  with 
bows  and  smiles  of  recognition  by  the  numerous  ca- 

425 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

merieri  and  other  splendidly  dressed  persons,  and  we 
were  led  through  endless  beautiful  rooms  before  arriving 
at  the  gallery  where  we  were  to  wait.  It  was  not  long 
before  his  Holiness  (Pius  IX.)  appeared,  followed  by 
his  suite  of  monsignors  and  prelates.  I  never  was  so 
impressed  in  my  life  as  when  I  saw  him.  He  wore  a 
white-cloth  soutane  and  white-embroidered  calotte  and 
red  slippers,  and  looked  so  kind  and  full  of  benevolence 
that  he  seemed  goodness  personified.  I  knelt  down  al- 
most with  pleasure  on  the  cold  floor  when  he  addressed 
me,  and  I  kissed  the  emerald  ring  which  he  wore  on  his 
third  finger  as  if  I  had  been  a  born  Catholic  and  had 
done  such  things  all  my  life. 

He  asked  me  in  English  from  which  country  I  came, 
and  when  I  answered,  "America,  your  Holiness,"  he 
said,  "What  part  of  America?"  I  replied,  "From  Bos- 
ton, Holy  Father." 

"It  is  a  gallant  town,"  the  Pope  remarked;  "I  have 
been  there  myself." 

Having  finished  speaking  with  the  men  (all  the  ladies 
stood  together  on  one  side  of  the  room  and  the  men  on 
the  other) ,  the  Pope  went  to  the  end  of  the  gallery.  We 
all  noticed  that  he  seemed  much  agitated,  and  wondered 
why,  and  what  could  have  happened  to  rufHe  his  be- 
nign face.  It  soon  became  known  that  there  was  an 
Englishman  present  who  refused  to  kneel,  although  or- 
dered to  do  so  by  the  irate  chamberlain,  and  who  stood 
stolidly  with  arms  folded,  looking  down  with  a  sneer 
upon  his  better-behaved  companions. 

His  Holiness  made  a  rather  lengthy  discourse,  and 
did  not  conceal  his  displeasure,  alluding  very  pointedly 
to  the  unpardonable  attitude  of  the  stranger. 

426 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

On  leaving  the  gallery  he  turned  around  a  last  time, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  giving  us  his  blessing,  and 
left  us  very  much  impressed.  I  looked  about  for  my 
companion,  but  could  not  see  her  anywhere.  Had  she 
forgotten  me  and  left  me  there  to  my  fate?  It  would 
not  be  unlike  her  to  do  so. 

I  saw  myself,  in  my  mind's  eye,  being  led  out  of  the 
Vatican  by  the  striped  yellow  and  black  legs  and  hal- 
berded  guards,  and  obliged  to  find  my  way  home  alone; 
but  on  peering  about  in  all  the  corners  I  caught  sight 
of  her  seated  on  a  bench  fervently  saying  her  prayers, 
evidently  under  the  impression  that  she  was  in  church 
during  mass.  As  we  were  about  to  enter  the  coupe 
she  hesitated  before  giving  any  orders  to  the  servant, 
possibly  not  remembering  where  I  had  lived.  But  the 
footman,  being  accustomed  to  her  vagaries,  did  not  wait, 
and  as  he  knew  where  to  deposit  me,  I  was  landed  safely 
at  the  Palazzo  Altieri. 

February  ijth. 

The  Storys  gave  "The  Merchant  of  Venice"  the  other 
evening.  They  had  put  up  in  one  of  the  salons  a  very 
pretty  little  stage ;  the  fashionable  world  was  au  complet, 
and,  after  having  made  our  bows  to  Mrs.  Story,  we  took 
our  places  in  the  theater.  Mr.  Story  was  Shylock,  and 
acted  extremely  well.  Edith  was  very  good  as  Portia. 
Waldo  and  Julian  both  took  part.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank 
Lascelles,  of  the  English  Embassy,  both  dressed  in  black 
velvet,  played  the  married  couple  to  the  life,  but  did  not 
look  at  all  Italian.  The  whole  performance  was  really 
wonderfully  well  done  and  most  successful;  the  enthu- 
siasm was  sincere  and  warmed  the  cold  hands  by  the 

427 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

frequent  clapping.      We  were   so  glad  to   be  enthusi- 
astic ! 

Mr.  Story  gave  me  his  book  called  Roba  di  Roma, 
which  I  will  tell  you  does  not  mean  Italian  robes — you 
might  think  so;  it  means  things  about  Rome.  I  will 
also  tell  you,  in  case  that  your  Italian  does  not  go  so  far, 
that  when  I  say  that  the  Storys  live  in  the  third  piano. 
I  do  not  mean  an  upright  or  a  grand — piano  is  the 
Italian  for  story. 

Madame  Minghetti — the  wife  of  the  famous  statesman 
— receives  every  Sunday  twilight.  Rome  flocks  there  to 
hear  music  and  to  admire  the  artistic  manner  in  which 
the  rooms  are  arranged ;  flirtations  are  rife  in  the  twilit 
comers,  in  which  the  salon  abounds.  As  Madame  Min- 
ghetti is  very  musical  and  appreciative,  all  the  people 
one  meets  there  pretend  to  be  musical  and  appreciative, 
and  do  not  talk  or  flirt  during  the  music;  so  when  I 
sing  "Medje"  in  the  growing  crepuscule  I  feel  in  perfect 
sympathy  with  my  audience.  Tosti  and  I  alternate  at 
the  piano  when  there  is  nothing  better.  If  no  one  else 
enjoys  us,  we  enjoy  each  other. 

I  have  always  wanted  very  much  to  see  the  famous 
Garibaldi,  and  knowing  he  was  in  Rome  I  was  deter- 
mined to  get  a  glimpse  of  him.  But  how  could  it  be 
done  ?  I  had  been  told  that  he  was  almost  unapproach- 
able, and  that  he  disliked  strangers  above  all. 

However,  where  there  is  a  will  there  seems  to  come 
a  way ;  at  any  rate,  there  did  come  one,  and  this  is  how 
it  came: 

At  dinner  at  the  French  Embassy  I  sat  next  to  Prince 
Odescalchi,  and  told  him  of  my  desire  to  see  Garibaldi. 
He  said:  "Perhaps  I  can  manage  it  for  you.     I  have  a 

428 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

friend  who  knows  a  friend  of  Garibaldi,  and  it  might 
be  arranged  through  him." 

"Then,"  I  said,  "your  friend  who  is  a  friend  of  Gari- 
baldi's will  let  you  know,  and  as  you  are  a  friend  of  my 
friend  you  will  let  her  know,  and  she  will  let  me  know." 

"It  sounds  very  complicated,"  he  answered,  laughing, 
"and  is  perhaps  impossible;    but  we  will  do  our  best." 

No  more  than  two  days  after  this  dinner  there  came 
a  message  from  the  Prince  to  say  that,  if  Mrs.  Hasel- 
tine  and  I  would  drive  out  to  Garibaldi's  villa,  the  friend 
and  the  friend  of  the  friend  would  be  there  to  meet  us 
and  present  us.  This  we  did,  and  found  the  two  gentle- 
men awaiting  us  at  the  gate.  I  felt  my  heart  beat  a 
little  faster  at  the  thought  of  seeing  the  great  hero. 

Garibaldi  was  sitting  in  his  garden,  in  a  big,  easy, 
wicker  chair,  and  looked  rather  grumpy,  I  thought 
(probably  he  was  annoyed  at  being  disturbed).  But  he 
apparently  made  up  his  mind  to  accept  the  inevitable, 
and,  rising,  came  toward  us,  and  on  our  being  presented 
stretched  out  a  welcoming  hand. 

He  had  on  a  rather  soiled  cape,  and  a  foulard,  the 
worse  for  wear,  around  his  neck,  where  the  historical 
red  shirt  was  visible.  His  head,  with  its  long  hair,  was 
covered  with  a  velvet  calotte.  He  looked  more  like  an 
invalid  basking  in  the  sun  with  a  shawl  over  his  legs 
than  he  did  like  the  hero  of  my  imagination,  and  the 
only  time  he  did  look  at  all  military  was  when  he  turned 
sharply  to  his  parrot,  who  kept  up  an  incessant  chatter- 
ing, and  said,  in  a  voice  full  of  command,  "Taci!"  which 
the  parrot  did  not  in  the  least  seem  to  mind  (I  hope 
Garibaldi's  soldiers  obeyed  him  better). 

Garibaldi  apologized  for  the  parrot's  bad  manners  by 

429 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

saying,  "He  is  very  unruly,  but  he  talks  well";   and 
added,  with  a  rusty  smile,  "Better  than  his  master." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you,"  I  said.  "I  can  understand 
you,  whereas  I  can't  even  tell  what  language  he  is 
speaking." 

"He  comes  from  Brazil,  and  was  given  to  me  by  a 
lady." 

"Does  he  only  speak  Brazilian?"  I  asked. 

"Oh  no,  he  can  speak  a  little  Italian;  he  can  say 
'lo  t'amo'  and  'Caro  mio'." 

"That  shows  how  well  the  lady  educated  him.  Will 
he  not  say  To  t'amo'  for  me?  I  should  so  love  to  hear 
him." 

•     But,  in  spite  of  tender  pleadings,  the  parrot  refused 
to  do  anything  but  scream  in  his  native  tongue. 

Garibaldi  talked  Italian  in  a  soft  voice  with  his  friend 
and  French  to  us.  He  asked  a  few  questions  as  to  our 
nationality,  and  made  some  other  commonplace  re- 
marks. When  I  told  him  I  was  an  American  he  seemed 
to  unbend  a  little,  and  said,  ' '  I  like  the  Americans ;  they 
are  an  honorable,  just,  and  intelligent  people." 

He  must  have  read  admiration  in  my  eyes,  for  he 
"laid  himself  out"  (so  his  friend  said)  to  be  amiable. 
Amiability  toward  strangers  was  evidently  not  his  cus- 
tomary attitude. 

He  went  so  far  as  to  give  me  his  photograph,  and 
wrote  "Miss  Moulton"  on  it  with  a  hand  far  from 
clean;  but  it  was  the  hand  of  a  brave  man,  and  I  liked 
it  all  the  better  for  being  dirty.  It  seemed  somehow 
to  belong  to  a  hero.  I  think  that  I  would  have  been 
disappointed  if  he  had  had  clean  hands  and  well-trimmed 
finger-nails.     On  our  taking  leave  of  him  he  conjured 

430 


GIUSEPPE    GARIBALDI 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

up  a  wan  smile  and  said,  very  pleasantly,  giving  us  his 
ink-stained  hand,   "A  rivederci." 

I  wondered  if  he  really  meant  that  he  wanted  to  see 
us  again;  I  doubt  it,  and  did  not  take  his  remark  seri- 
ously. On  the  contrary,  I  had  the  feeling  that  he  was 
more  than  indifferent  to  the  pleasure  our  visit  had  given 
him. 

When  we  were  driving  back  to  Rome  the  horses  took 
fright  and  began  running  away.  They  careered  like 
wildfire  through  the  gates  of  the  Porta  del  Popolo,  and 
bumped  into  a  cart  drawn  by  oxen  and  overloaded  with 
wine-casks.  Fortunately  one  of  the  horses  fell  down,  and 
we  came  to  a  standstill.  The  coachman  got  down  from 
the  box  and  discovered  that  one  of  the  wheels  was 
twisted,  the  pole  broken,  and  other  damage  done.  We 
were  obliged  to  leave  the  carriage  and  walk  down  the 
Corso  to  find  a  cab. 

Just  as  we  were  getting  into  one  we  saw  on  the  oppo- 
site side  of  the  street  a  man  who,  while  he  was  cleaning 
the  windows  in  the  third  story  of  a  house,  lost  his  balance 
and  fell  into  the  street. 

We  dreaded  to  know  what  had  happened,  and  avoided 
the  crowd  which  quickly  collected,  thus  shutting  out 
whatever  had  happened  from  our  view.  We  hurried 
home,  trembling  from  our  different  emotions. 

The  next  morning  I  awoke  from  my  sleep,  having 
had  a  most  vivid  dream.  I  thought  I  was  in  a  shop, 
and  the  man  serving  me  said,  "If  you  take  any  numbers 
in  the  next  lottery,  take  numbers  2,  18,  and  9.  This 
was  extraordinary,  and  I  immediately  told  the  family 
about    it:    2,    18,   9   (three  numbers  meant  a  terno,  in 

other  words,  a  fortune).     Mr.  H said,  "Let  us  look 

431 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

out  these  numbers  in  the  Libro  di  Sogni  (the  Book  of 
Dreams),"  and  sent  out  to  buy  the  book.  Imagine  our 
feelings!  Number  2  meant  caduta  d'lma  finestra  (fall 
from  a  window) ;  number  18  meant  morte  subito  (sudden 
death),  and  number  9  meant  ospedale  (hospital). 

Just  what  had  happened;  the  man  had  fallen  from 
the  window  and  had  been  carried  dead  to  the  hospital! 

Perhaps  you  don't  know  what  a  tremendous  part  the 
lottery  plays  in  Italy;  it  is  to  an  Italian  what  sausages 
and  beer  are  to  a  German.  An  Italian  will  spend  his 
last  soldo  to  buy  a  ticket.  He  simply  cannot  live  with- 
out it.  The  numbers  are  drawn  every  Saturday  morn- 
ing at  twelve  o'clock,  and  are  instantly  exposed  in  all 
the  tobacco-shops  in  the  town. 

An  hour  after,  whether  lucky  or  unlucky,  the  Italian 
buys  a  new  ticket  for  the  following  week,  and  lives  on 
hope  and  dreams  until  the  next  Saturday ;  and  when  any 
event  happens  or  any  dream  comes  to  him  he  searches 
in  the  dream-book  for  a  number  corresponding  to  them, 
and  he  is  off  like  lightning  to  buy  a  ticket.  I  was  told 
that  the  Marquis  Rudini,  on  hearing  that  his  mother 
had  met  her  death  in  a  railroad  accident,  sought  in  the 
dream-book  for  the  number  attached  to  "railroad  acci- 
dent," and  bought  a  ticket  before  going  to  get  her 
remains. 

A  winning  terno  brings  its  lucky  owner  I  don't  know 
exactly  how  much — ^but  I  know  it  is  something  enor- 
mous. 

Well,  this  would  be  a  terno  worth  having.  My  dream, 
coming  as  it  did  straight  from  the  blue,  must  be  in- 
fallibility itself,  and  we  felt  perfectly  sure  that  the  three 
magical  numbers  would  bring  a  fortune  for  every  one 

432 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

of  us,  and  we  all  sent  out  and  bought  tickets  with  all 
the  money  we  could  spare. 

This  was  on  Thursday,  and  we  should  have  to  wait 
two  whole  days  before  we  became  the  roarmg  million- 
aires we  certainly  were  going  to  be,  and  we  strutted 
about  thinking  what  presents  we  would  make,  what 
jewels  we  would  buy;  in  fact,  how  we  would  use  our 
fortunes!  We  sat  up  late  at  night  discussing  the  wisest 
and  best  way  to  invest  our  money,  and  I  could  not  sleep 
for  fear  of  a  contre-coup  in  the  shape  of  another  dream. 
For  instance,  if  I  should  dream  of  a  cat  miauling  on  a 
roof,  it  would  mean  disappointment.  It  would  never 
do  to  give  fate  a  chance  like  that! 

Imagine  with  what  feverish  excitement  we  awoke  on 
that  Saturday,  and  how  we  watched  the  numbers,  gaz- 
ing from  the  carriage- windows,  at  the  tobacco-shop! 
Well  not  one  of  those  numbers  came  out!  We  drove 
home  in  silence,  with  our  feathers  all  drooping.  How- 
ever we  had  had  the  sensation  of  being  millionaires 
for  those  two  days  (ecstatic  but  short!),  and  felt  that 
we  had  been  defrauded  by  an  unjust  and  erne  fate. 

Unsympathetic  Mr.  Marshall  said,  mockingly :     How 
could  you  expect  anything  else,  when  you  go  on  excur- 
sions with  the  Marquis  Maurriti  [that  was  the  name  of 
Garibaldi's  friend]?     You  might  have  known  that  you 
would  come  to  grief." 

"UnfeeUng  man!     Why  should  we  come  to  gnef? 
we  cried  with  impatience.  . 

"Because,  did  you  not  know  that  he  has  the  mal  occJno 
[the  evil  eye]  ?     I  thought  every  one  knew  it,'   said  he 
making  signs  with  his  fingers  to  counteract  the  effect 
of  the  devil  and  all  his  works.      We  said  indignantly, 

433 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

"If  every  one  knows  it,  why  were  we  not  told?"  Our 
tormentor  continued:  "There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  and 
nothing  can  better  prove  that  people  are  afraid  of  him 
than  that  when,  the  other  evening,  he  gave  a  soiree  and 
invited  all  Rome,  only  half  a  dozen  people  out  of  some 
five  hundred  ventured  to  go.  The  mountains  of  sand- 
wiches, the  cart-loads  of  cakes,  the  seas  of  lemonade,  set 
forth  on  the  supper-table,  were  attacked  only  by  the 
courageous  few." 

"How  dreadful  to  have  such  a  thing  said  about  you! 
Who  can  prove  that  he  or  any  one  else  has  got  the  evil 
eye?" 

"Sometimes  there  is  no  foundation  for  the  report; 
perhaps  some  one,  out  of  spite  or  jealousy,  spreads  the 
r\imor,  and  there  you  are." 

"Does  it  not  need  more  than  a  rumor?"  I  asked. 

"Not  much;  but  we  must  not  talk  about  him,  or  some- 
thing dreadful  will  happen  to  us." 

"Do  you  also  believe  in  such  rank  nonsense?"  I 
asked. 

"Of  course  I  do!"  Mr.  Marshall  replied.  "You  can 
see  for  yourself.  If  you  had  not  gone  with  him  your 
horses  would  not  have  run  away,  and  you  woiild  surely 
have  got  your  million." 

"Well,  we  have  escaped  death  and  destruction  and 
the  million;  perhaps  we  ought  to  be  thanlcful.  But  in 
his  case  I  would  go  and  shut  myself  up  in  a  monastery 
and  have  done  with  it." 

"No  monastery  would  take  him.  No  brotherhood 
would  brother  him." 

"You  can't  make  me  believe  in  the  evil  eye.  Neither 
shall  I  ever  believe  in  dreams  again." 

434 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

You  will  hardly  believe  how  many  acquaintances  I 
have  made  here.  I  think  I  know  all  Rome,  from  the 
Quirinal  and  the  Vatican  down.  The  Haseltines  know 
nearly  every  one,  and  whom  they  don't  know  I  do. 

We  were  invited  to  see  the  Colosseum  and  the  Forum 
illuminations,  and  were  asked  to  go  to  the  Villino,  which 
stands  in  the  gardens  of  the  Palace  of  the  Csesars,  just 
over  the  Forum. 

That  there  would  be  a  very  select  company  we  had 
been  told;  but  we  did  not  expect  to  see  King  Victor 
Emanuel,  Prince  Umberto,  and  Princess  Margherita, 
who,  with  their  numerous  suites  and  many  invited  guests, 
quite  filled  the  small  rooms  of  the  Villino.  I  was  pre- 
sented to  them  all. 

I  found  the  Princess  perfectly  bewitching  and  charm- 
ing beyond  words;  the  Prince  was  very  amiable,  and 
the  King  royally  indifferent  and  visibly  bored.  That 
sums  up  my  impressions. 

At  the  risk  of  committing  Use  majesty,  I  must  say 
that  the  King  is  more  than  plain.  He  has  the  most 
enormous  mustaches,  wide-open  eyes,  and  a  very  gruff, 
military  voice,  speaking  little,  but  staring  much.  The 
Prince,  whom  I  had  seen  in  Paris  during  the  Exposition, 
talked  mostly  about  Paris  and  of  his  admiration  of  the 
Emperor  and  Empress.  The  Princess  was  fascinating, 
and  captivated  me  on  the  spot  by  her  affability  and 
her  natural  and  sweet  manner. 

The  Colosseum  looked  rather  theatrical  in  the  glare 
of  the  red  and  green  Bengal  lights,  and  I  think  it  lost 
a  great  deal  of  its  dignity  and  grandeur  by  this  cheap 
method  of  illumination. 

I  met  there  a  Spanish  gentleman  whom  I  used  to 

435 


INTHE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

know  in  Paris  years  ago.  He  was  at  that  time  the 
Marquis  de  Lema,  a  middle-aged  beau,  who  was  always 
ready  to  fill  any  gap  in  society  where  a  noble  marquis 
was  needed. 

He  began  life,  strange  to  say,  as  a  journalist,  and  as 
such  made  himself  so  useful  to  the  ex-King  of  Naples 
that  the  King,  to  reward  him,  hired  the  famous  Farnesina 
Palace  for  ninety-nine  years.  Here  the  former  Marquis, 
who  is  now  Duke  di  Ripalda,  lives  very  much  aggran- 
dized as  a  descendant  of  the  Cid,  glorying  in  his  ances- 
torship. 

He  was  very  glad  to  see  me  again,  he  said,  and  to  prove 
it  came  often  to  dine  with  us. 

One  day  he  asked  Mrs.  Lawrence,  Miss  Chapman,  and 
myself  to  take  tea  with  him  in  the  romantic  garden  of 
the  Farnesina.  Mrs.  Lawrence  said  it  was  like  a  dream, 
walking  under  the  orange-trees  and  looking  down  on 
the  old  Tiber,  which  makes  a  sudden  turn  at  the  bottom 
of  the  broad  terrace. 

Her  dream  came  suddenly  to  an  end  when  she  saw  the 
stale  cakes  and  the  weak  and  watery  tea  and  oily  choco- 
late which,  out  of  politeness,  we  felt  obliged  to  swallow; 
and  the  nightmare  set  in  when  she  saw  his  apartment 
on  the  first  floor,  furnished  by  himself  with  his  own 
individual  taste,  which  was  simply  awful.  But  who 
cares  for  the  mother-of-pearl  inlaid  furniture  covered 
with  hideous  modern  blue  brocade  and  the  multi- 
colored carpets  in  which  his  coat  of  arms  were  woven, 
when  one  can  look  at  his  Sodomas  and  Correggios  and 
Raphaels?  His  coat  of  arms,  which  is  a  sword  with 
"Si,  si,  no,  no,"  is  displayed  everywhere  throughout 
the  palace. 

436 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

The  ''cid-evanl"  J^.larquis  told  us  that  the  Cid  had  given 
the  sword  to  one  of  his  ancestors,  and  remarked  that  it 
signified  that  his  forefathers  had  very  decided  characters, 
and  that  it  was  either  yes  or  no  with  them.  I  thought 
it  might  work  the  other  way;  it  might  just  as  well 
mean  that  the  ancestors  did  not  know  their  own  minds, 
and  that  first  it  was  yes  and  then  it  was  no  with  them. 
The  Duke,  in  a  truly  grandiose  manner,  lays  no  restric- 
tion on  the  public,  but  throws  his  whole  palace  open  every 
first  and  fifteenth  of  the  month,  and  allows  people  to 
roam  at  their  pleasure  through  all  the  rooms;  they  can 
even  sit  on  the  blue  brocade  furniture  if  they  like,  and 
there  is  no  officious  guide  ordering  people  about  with 
their,  "This  way,  Madame,"  or  "Don't  sit  down," 
"Don't  walk  on  the  carpet,"  or  "Don't  spit  on  the 
floor." 

On  the  ground  floor  are  the  celebrated  frescoes  of 
"Psyche,"  painted  by  Raphael,  and  in  the  large  gallery 
there  is  a  little  design  on  the  walls  to  which  the  Duke 
called  our  attention,  saying  it  was  Michelangelo's 
visiting-card,  and  told  us  that  Michelangelo  came  one 
day,  and,  finding  Raphael  absent,  took  up  his  palette 
and  painted  this  little  picture,  which  still  remains  on 
the  walls,  framed  and  with  a  glass  over  it. 

Mrs.  Lawrence  told  us  of  a  new  acquaintance  she  had 
made,  a  Baron  Montenaro,  who  said  he  was  the  last  (the 
very  last)  of  the  Rienzis,  a  descendant  of  Cola  di.  The 
last  tribune  left!  "Is  it  not  romantic?"  cried  Mrs.  Law- 
rence, and  was  all  eyes  and  ears.  But  prosaic  Duke  di 
Ripalda  said,  "How  can  he  say  he  is  the  last  of  the 
Rienzis,  when  he  has  a  married  brother  who  has  pros- 
pects of  a  small  tribune  of  his  own?" 
29  437 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

Rome,  April,  1875. 

Mrs.  Polk  (widow  of  the  former  President  Polk)  and 
her  two  daughters  are  very  much  liked  here.  I  call 
Miss  Polk  la  ntaitresse  demoiselle,  because  she  rules 
every  one  with  a  high  and  masterful  hand. 

They  had  some  wonderful  tableaux  recently  at 
their  palace  (Salviati),  which  were  most  beautiful  and 
artistically  arranged  by  different  artists.  They  had 
turned  a  long  gallery  which  had  once  served  as  a  ball- 
room into  the  theater.  I  was  asked  to  sing  in  a  tableau 
representing  a  Bohemian  hall,  where,  as  a  background, 
Bohemian  peasants  in  brilliant  costimies  sat  and  stood 
about.  I  was  also  dressed  in  a  Bohemian  dress,  and 
leaned  against  a  pillar  and  held  a  tambourine  in  my 
hand.  Tosti  played  the  accompaniment  of  "Ma  Mdre 
etait  Bohemienne,"  which  was  most  appropriate  to  the 
occasion. 

The  Princess  Margherita  sat  in  the  front  row,  and  a 
more  sympathetic  and  lovelier  face  could  never  have 
inspired  a  singer.  She  insisted  upon  my  repeating  my 
song,  which  rather  bored  the  other  performers,  as  they 
had  to  stand  quiet  while  the  song  was  going  on.  Tosti 
made  the  accompaniment  wonderfully  well,  considering 
that  I  had  only  played  it  once  for  him. 

After  the  tableaux,  and  when  the  Princess  had  re- 
tired to  a  little  salon  placed  at  her  disposal,  she  sent 
word  to  ask  me  to  come  to  her,  as  she  wished  to  speak 
with  me.  I  was  overjoyed  to  see  her  again,  as  the  short 
interview  at  the  VilHno  could  hardly  be  called  an  inter- 
view. 

The  Princess  said :  "I  have  heard  a  great  deal  about 

438 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

your  singing;  but  I  did  not  believe  any  amateur  could 
sing  as  you  do.  Your  phrasing  and  expression  are  quite 
perfect!"  She  finished  by  asking  me  to  come  to  the 
Quirinal  to  see  her,  "and  perhaps  have  a  little  music"; 
and  added,  "The  Marquis  Villamarina  sings  beautifully, 
and  you  shall  hear  him."  The  Princess  is  so  lovely,  no 
words  can  describe  her  charm  and  the  sweet  expression 
of  her  face.     Her  smile  is  a  dream. 

I  had  intended  leaving  Rome  the  very  day  she  fixed 
for  my  going  to  her,  but  of  course  I  postponed  my  de- 
parture and  I  went,  and  had  a  most  delightful  afternoon. 
It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  seen  the  Quirinal  and 
I  was  very  much  interested.  One  of  the  numerous 
laquais  who  were  standing  about  in  the  antechamber 
when  I  arrived  preceded  me  into  a  salon  where  I  found 
the  Marquise  Villamarina  (first  lady-in-waiting  of  the 
Princess).  She  came  toward  me,  saying  that  the  Princess 
was  looking  forward  with  pleasure  to  seeing  me,  and  added 
that  she  hoped  that  I  had  thought  to  bring  some  music. 
I  followed  her  through  several  very  spacious  salons  until 
we  reached  a  salon  which  evidently  was  the  music-room, 
as  there  were  two  grand  pianos  and  a  quantity  of  music- 
books  placed  on  shelves.  Here  I  found  the  Princess 
waiting  for  me,  and  she  received  me  with  much  cordiality. 

The  Marquis  Villamarina  has  a  most  enchanting  voice, 
liquid  and  velvety,  the  kind  that  one  only  hears  in  Italy. 
Signor  Tosti  (the  composer)  was  already  at  the  piano 
and  accompanied  the  Marquis  in  "Ti  rapirei,  mio  ben," 
a  song  he  composed  and  dedicated  to  him.  The  Princess 
sang  a  very  charming  old  Italian  song.  She  has  a  mezzo- 
soprano  voice  and  sings  with  great  taste  and  sweetness. 
She,  the  Marquis,  and  I  sang  a  trio  of  Gordigiani;  then 

439 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

the  Princess  asked  me  to  sing  the  "Ma  Mdre  etait 
Bohemienne, "  which  I  had  sung  at  the  tableaux.  I  also 
sang  "Beware!"  which  she  had  never  heard  and  which 
she  was  perfectly  delighted  with,  and  I  promised  to  send 
her  the  music.  It  was  a  great  pleasure  to  sing  in  this 
intimate  and  sans  J  agon  way,  with  the  most  sympathetic 
and  charming  of  Princesses.  Chocolate,  tea,  and  little 
cakes  were  served,  which  I  supposed  was  the  signal  for 
departure.  The  Princess,  on  bidding  me  good-by,  gave 
me  her  hand  and  said,  "I  hope  to  see  you  soon  again." 

"Alas!"  I  replied,  "I  am  leaving  Rome  to-morrow," 
and  as  I  stooped  down  to  kiss  her  hand  she  drew  me  to 
her  and  said,  "I  am  sorry  that  you  are  going,  I  hoped 
that  you  were  staying  longer,"  and  kissed  me  on  both 
cheeks. 

Paris,  May,  1875. 

I  have  had  a  lazy  month.  Mrs.  Moulton  was  delight- 
ed to  have  me  back  again,  and  I  was  glad  to  rest  after 
all  my  junketing.  Just  think,  I  was  almost  a  year  in 
Germany ! 

Nina  has  had  the  measles,  fortunately  lightly;  I  was 
garde  malade,  and  stayed  with  her  in  her  sick-room. 

Howard  goes  to  a  day-school  not  far  from  the  Rue  de 
Courcelles  every  morning,  and  comes  home  at  two  o'clock 
and  shows  with  pride  the  book  the  teacher  gives  him  to 
show.  They  must  mean  it  to  be  shown,  otherwise  so 
much  trouble  would  not  be  taken  to  make  such  lengthy 
and  marvelous  accounts  of  his  prowess,  the  numbers  run- 
ning up  in  the  thousands,  and  notations  all  through,  such 
as  trh  hien,  verbes  sans  faute,  and  dictes  parfaits.  He  can 
repeat  all  the  departments  of  France  backward  and  for- 

440 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

ward,  and  goes  through  the  verbs,  regular  and  irregular, 
like  a  machine.  The  French  love  these  irregular  verbs, 
so  irregular  sometimes  that  they  border  on  frivolity.  He 
has  learned  some  rather  inane  patriotic  poetry,  which 
he  recites  with  a  childish  dramatic  swagger. 

This  is  about  all  they  teach  in  this  school;  but  the 
rapports  are  worth  the  money :  they  deceive  the  parents, 
making  them  beHeve  their  geese  are  swans  of  the  first 
water. 

Paris,  May. 

We  have  had  real  pleasure  in  hearing  a  yoimg  pianiste 
from  Venezuela  called  Teresa  Careiio.  She  is  a  wunder- 
kind.  Her  mother  says  she  is  nine  years  old;  she  looks 
twelve,  but  may  be  sixteen.  No  one  can  ever  tell  how 
old  a  wunderkind  really  is.  Her  playing  is  marvelous, 
her  technic  perfect.  She  knows  about  two  hundred 
pieces  by  heart,  is  extremely  pretty  and  attractive,  and 
performs  whenever  she  is  asked.  I  think  she  has  a  great 
career  before  her,  and  she  has  already  got  the  toss-back 
of  her  black  hair  in  the  most  approved  pianist  manner. 
"Elle  ne  manque  rien,"  the  great  Saint-Saens  said.  One 
can't  imagine  that  she  could  play  better  than  she  does; 
but  she  thinks  that  she  is  by  no  means  perfect. 

Though  I  said  that  I  had  led  a  dolce-far-niente  exist- 
ence, and  had  been  lazy,  I  have  been  dreadfully  busy 
and  have  been  on  the  go  from  morning  till  night:  I 
might  call  it  a  dolce-far-molto  existence.  I  spend  hours, 
which  ought  to  be  better  spent,  in  shops.  I  simply  revel 
in  them. 

You  have  heard  of  the  famous  actress  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt.    Well,  she  is  not  only  an  actress,  but  she  is  a 

441 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

sculptress,  and  is  a  very  good  one.  She  is  now  playing  at 
the  Vaudeville.  But  I  must  begin  at  the  beginning,  the 
whole  thing  was  so  amusing. 

You  remember  Mrs.  Bradley  ?  You  used  to  scold  me 
for  calling  her  "the  Omelette."  They  are  living  now  in 
Paris;  her  hair  and  complexion  are  just  as  yellow  as 
they  used  to  be;  but  her  dresses  are  yellower.  Beau- 
mont said  that  she  was  "Une  etude  en  jaune." 

The  other  evening  she  had  a  box  at  the  theater,  and 
asked  me  to  go  to  hear  Sarah  Bernhardt  in  "Le  fils 
Giboyer."  Her  son,  the  immaculate  Bostonian,  went 
with  us.  He  is  a  duplicate  of  his  mother's  yellowness. 
I  took  Nina,  who  looked  extremely  pretty:  she  was 
beaming  with  excitement;  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and 
her  curly,  golden  hair  made  a  halo  about  her  delicate 
features.  Every  one  stared  at  her  when  we  entered 
the  box.  During  the  second  act  I  let  her  take  my  place 
in  front,  and,  observe  how  virtue  is  rewarded!  In  the 
following  entr'acte  the  ouvreuse  came  in  suddenly  without 
knocking  (ouvreuses  never  knock!  that  is  one  of  their 
many  privileges)  and  begged  to  parler  a  Monsieur. 
Imagine  the  chaste  George's  feelings  when  he  was  told 
that  the  famous  Sarah  wished  to  speak  with  him,  and, 
moreover,  desired  him  to  come  behind  the  scenes  to 
her  dressing-room.  What  a  situation!  His  red  hair 
blushed  to  the  very  roots,  and  his  yellow  face  became 
a  sunset.  However,  one  is  or  one  is  not  a  man.  He 
proved  himself  to  be  one  who  could  face  danger  when 
the  time  came. 

Trembling  at  the  thought  of  Boston,  the  virtuous, 
hearing  of  it,  he  saw  in  his  mind's  eye  the  height  the 
Puritan  brows  of  his  most  distinguished  family  would 

442 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

reach  when  the  news  would  be  spread  over  the  town, 
and  a  certain  biblical  scene  passed  before  his  mental 
vision. 

He  gave  his  lemon-colored  mustache  a  final  fascinat- 
ing twist,  and,  humming  to  himself  "Hail,  the  conquering 
hero  comes!"  he  buckled  on  his  sword  and  went — all 
his  colors  flying. 

We  waited  breathlessly  for  his  return,  which  was  much 
sooner  than  we  expected,  and  the  smile  he  wore  was  not 
that  of  a  conquering  hero;  it  was  another  kind  of  a 
smile.  Well,  what  do  you  think  Madame  Sarah  wanted? 
Merely  to  know  if  the  child  in  the  box  was  his!  His! 
His  unmarried  hair  stood  on  end ;  he  was  so  taken  aback 
that  he  only  had  breath  to  mutter,  "I  am  not  married, 
Madame." 

Then  in  her  most  dramatic  tones  she  demanded,  "Who 
is  the  child,  then?" 

He  told  her, 

"Where  does  this  Madame  Moulton  live?"  she  asked. 

He  told  her  that  also.  Then,  with  a  dismissing  wave 
of  the  hand,  Sarah  bade  him  farewell.  It  was  all  over. 
He  had  survived!     Boston  would  never  know. 

The  next  day  I  received  a  note  from  Sarah  Bern- 
hardt, asking  me  if  I  would  allow  her  to  make  a  bust 
of  la  charmante  petite  fille.  I  answered  that  I  should  be 
delighted.  Then  came  another  note  telling  me  at  what 
time  Venfant  should  come  for  the  first  sitting. 

I  took  Nina  to  the  studio,  which  was  beyond  the 
Boulevard  de  Courcelles  in  a  courtyard.  It  was  en- 
chanting to  watch  the  artist  at  work.  She  was  dressed 
like  a  man:  she  wore  white  trousers  and  jacket,  and  a 
white  foulard  tied  artistically  about  her  head.     She  had 

443 


IN   THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

short  and  frizzly  hair,  and  she  showed  us  how  she  did  itj 
gathering  the  four  comers  as  if  it  were  a  handkerchief, 
with  the  ends  sticking  up  on  the  top  of  her  head.  She 
smoked  cigarettes  all  the  time  she  was  working. 

She  posed  Nina  in  the  attitude  she  thought  interesting, 
with  head  down  and  eyes  up — a  rather  tiring  position. 
And  to  keep  V enfant  quiet  she  devised  all  sorts  of  things. 
Sometimes  she  would  rehearse  her  roles  in  the  voice 
they  speak  of  as  golden;  because  it  coins  gold  for  her,  I 
suppose.  The  rehearsing  of  her  r61es  was  not  so  amusing, 
as  there  were  no  repliques;  but  what  kept  Nina  most 
quiet  was  when  Sarah  told  her  of  the  album  she  was 
making  for  her.  Every  artist  she  knew  was  working  at 
some  offering,  and  when  it  would  be  finished  Nina  was 
to  have  it.  She  would  expatiate  for  hours  on  the  smallest 
details.  Meissonier,  for  instance,  was  painting  a  water- 
color,  a  scene  of  the  war:  a  German  regiment  attack- 
ing a  French  inn,  which  was  being  defended  by  French 
soldiers.  Then  Gounod  was  writing  a  bit  of  music 
dedicated  to  la  charmante  module,  and  so  forth.  Nina 
would  listen  with  open  mouth  and  glistening  eyes,  and 
at  every  sitting  she  would  say,  "Et  mon  album?"  ex- 
pecting each  time  to  see  it  forthcoming.  But  it  never 
came  forth.  It  only  existed  in  Madame  Bernhardt's 
fertile  brain.  It  had  no  other  object  than  to  keep  the 
model  still.  It  seemed  cruel  to  deceive  the  child. 
Even  to  the  last,  when  Nina  had  said  for  the  last  time, 
"And  shall  I  have  my  album  to-day?"  Sarah  answered 
that  it  was  not  quite  ready,  as  the  binding  was  not  satis- 
factory, and  other  tales,  which,  if  not  true,  had  the 
desired  effect,  and  she  finished  the  bust.  It  was  not 
a  very  good  likeness,  but  a  very  pretty  artistic  effort, 

444 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 

and  was  sent  to  the  next  Exposition,  receiving  "honor- 
able mention,"  perhaps  more  honorable  than  we  men- 
tioned her  at  home.  She  gave  me  a  duplicate  of  it  made 
of  terra-cotta. 

Don't  expect  any  more  letters,  for  I  shall  be  very- 
busy  before  my  departure  for  America,  which  is  next 
week,  and  then  I  shall.   .  .  .  Well,  wait! 

Good-by. 


INDEX 


Agassiz,  Professor,  "  Father  Na- 
ture "  helped  to  pay  for  his  new 
house,  4. 

Amateur  theatricals,   41. 

American  songs  at  the  French 
court,   143,  200,  218. 

American  soul-probes,  intimate 
questions,  answered  by  the  Em- 
peror, the  Empress,  and  Prosper 
Merim^e,  192,  225. 

Americans  seeking  a  hotel,  258. 

Anti-slavery  anecdotes,  6 ;  Joshua 
Green's  forgetfulness,  7;  Phil- 
lips Brooks's  story  of  a  convert's 
confession,  7. 

Auber,  the  composer,  introduced 
by  the  Duke  de  Persigny,  35; 
writes  a  cadenza  for  Alabieflf's 
"  Rossignol,"  40 ;  at  Meyerbeer's 
funeral,  44;  his  life  in  Paris, 
60;  "Le  Reve  d'Amour "  at 
eighty-three,  209;  describes  the 
slaughter  of  Generals  Thomas 
and  Lecomte,  288;  his  friend- 
ship with  Massenet,  309;  enter- 
tains Madame  at  breakfast  dur- 
ing the  siege,  315;  dies  on  the 
ramparts,  334. 

Ball  costumes,  25,  28,  29.  32,  47. 

Ball  of  the  Plebiscite,  236. 

Bancroft,  George,  historian,  pre- 
sents a  souvenir  of  an  enjoyable 
evening,  9. 

Bernhardt,  Sara,  makes  a  bust  of 
Madamo's  daughter  Nina,  443. 

"Beware!",  Longfellow's  words  set 
to  music  bv  Charles  Moulton, 
wins  praise,"  120,  143,  218,  238, 
270,  338,  356,  440. 

Birthday  joy  for  Count  Pourtales, 
91. 


Blind  Tom  imitates  Auber,  160. 
Brignoli,  in  his  prime,  8. 
Brooks,  Phillips,  anecdote  by,  7. 
Brunswick's  wicked  duke  and  his 

famous    crime,    181;    his    silken 

wig,  183. 

Cakeno,  Tbsjesa,  a  wunderkind 
at  nine,  plays  in  Paris,  441. 

Carl  XIV.  of  Sweden  at  the  Ex- 
position, 178. 

Castellane,  Countess,  exhibits  her 
stable  at  a  fancy  ball,  29. 

Castiglione,  Countess,  as  Sa- 
lammbO,"  34;  as  "La  V6rit€, 
47. 

Changarnier,  General,  in  the 
lancers,   206. 

Charades  and  amateur  theatricals, 
114,  213. 

Charity,  singing  for,  5,  66. 

Cinderella  coach,  Mrs.  Moulton's, 
26. 

Compifegne  and  its  festivities,  96; 
its  grand  officials  and  its  guests, 
97;  ceremonies  at  the  table,  104; 
dress  etiquette,  129. 

Costumes  for  Compiegne,  189. 

Croquet  at  night  with  lamps,  138; 
imperial  players,  140;  beaten 
with  a  despised  ivory  mallet, 
245. 

Cuba  visited,  340;  an  old  Harvard 
friend  lands  the  party  in  Ha- 
vana, 342;  high  officials  escort 
Madame  all  over  the  island, 
344;  assisted  by  old  acquaint- 
ances, 349;  a  curious  Cuban 
waltz,  356 ;  a  hot  time  in  Morro 
Castle,  357;  international  cour- 
tesies on  the  war-ships,  360,  371, 
372;     fame    had    preceded    Ma- 


447 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY' 


dame,  364;  discovers  and  visits 
Jules  Alphonso,  365;  news  of 
Napoleon's  death,  36i);  a  Ger- 
man serenade,  373;  "Pinafore" 
for  the  sailors,  374;  a  triumphal 
departure,  374. 
Curls  from  the  "  Magasin  du  Bon 
Dieu  "  cause  a  sensation,  51. 

d'Aoust's,  Marquis,  operetta,  191, 
198,  222,  227. 

De  Bassano,  Duchess,  grandc  mat- 
tresse,  100. 

Delle  Sedie,  music-teacher,  and  his 
theories,  38. 

Delsarte  and  his  emotion  dia- 
grams, 77;  his  "  tabac,"  145; 
the  Emperor's  joke,  150;  Ma- 
dame visits  him  during  the 
siege,  287;  his  evening  dress, 
308. 

De  Morny,  Duke  (Queen  Hor- 
tense's  son),  and  his  protc'g4, 
31;  as  a  librettist,  with  music 
by  OflFenbach,  36;   his  death,  76. 

Dor6  caricatures  nobility,  151. 

Emeralds  from  tlie  Khedive,  171. 

Eugenie,  Empress,  skates  with  Ma- 
dame, 24;  "a  beautiful  appari- 
tion," 28;  in  collision  with  an 
American,  30;  at  the  play  in 
Compi^gne,  127;  her  Hight  from 
the  Tuileries  after  Sedan  as- 
sisted by  Prince  Metternich, 
380;  takes  refuge  with  Dr. 
Evans,  382;  widow  and  exile  at 
Chiselhurst,  383. 

Evans,  Dr.,  American  dentist, 
shelters  the  fleeing  Empress 
after  Sedan,  382. 

Exposition  of  1867,  154. 

Gallifet,  Marquis  de,  tells  of  his 
silver  plate,  142;  criticizes  Eng- 
lish idioms,  212. 

Garcia,  Manuel,  teacher  of  singing, 
engaged,  11;  first  impressions 
and  lessons,  13;  "Bel  raggio" 
the  first  song,  14. 

Garibaldi  in  retirement,  429;  auto- 
graphs his  portrait,  430. 


Gautier,  ThOophile,  dinner  com- 
panion, tells  of  his  educated 
eats,  111;  his  poetical  tribute 
to  ^ladame,  131. 

Germans  in  Versailles,  256. 

Germany  and  the  Khineland, 
375;  visit  to  the  Metternichs' 
chateau,  Johannisberg,  377; 
reminiscences  of  the  war,  380; 
famous  Johannisberg  wine,  384 ; 
a  gentlemanly  American  bronco- 
buster  captures  the  Westphals, 
394;  at  Weimar,  402;  calling  on 
a  noble  farmer,  404;  boar-hunt- 
ing in  Westphalia,  409. 

Gold  button  of  the  Imperial  Hunt, 
a  gift  from  Napoleon,  122; 
worn  at  a  chasse-d-tir,  123;  at 
a  mock  battle,  133. 

Gounod  "  hums  "  deliciously,  159. 

Green  corn  and  a  clay  pipe  at 
Fontainebleau,  93. 

Green,  Joshua,  and  his  Creator,  6. 

Gudin,  William,  artist,  and  his 
collection  of  cigars  and  cigar- 
ettes, 45. 

Hatzfeldt,     Count,     married     to 

Madame's  sister  Helen,  248; 
Bismarck's  secretary,  256;  his 
opinion  of  Napoleon,  257;  Ger- 
man minister  to  ^ladrid,  375. 
Hegermann  -  Lindencrone,  Madame 
Lillie  de,  prefatory  note,   i,   iii. 

In  London  society,  236. 

Imperial   gifts,   76,    105,   122,   150, 

171. 
Imperial  hunt  fashions  and  cruelty 

to  animals,   123,   146;   the  dog's 

share,  149,  220. 

"  La  Diva  du  Moxde  " — Strakosch 
tempts  Madame  to  sing  in 
concert,  335 ;  an  immediate  suc- 
cess, 337 ;  story  of  a  floral  harp, 
338;  a  trying  moment  in  ora- 
torio, 339;  news  of  Mr.  Moul- 
ton's  illness  and  sudden  death, 
339,  340. 

Lincoln,  President,  at  the  Sanitary 
Fair,  64;  compliments  Madame, 


448 


INDEX 


65;  news  of  his  assassination, 
71. 

Lind's,  Jenny,  American  mem- 
ories, 84,  86;  comparing  trills, 
87;  duets  witli,  158,  160. 

Liszt  plays  Auber's  music  and 
praises  Massenet,  163;  his  letter 
to  Madame,  164. 

Locket  souvenirs,  192. 

Longfellow,  the  poet,  disapproves 
of  but  forgives  a  joke,  4. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  cousin,  a 
substitute  for  Longfellow  in  the 
Agassiz  school,  2. 

Marghebita,  Princess  of  Italy,  en- 
tertains Madame  at  the  Quiri- 
nal,  438. 

Massenet  at  Petit  Val,  the  Moul- 
tons'  country  seat,  82. 

Maximilian's  death  in  Mexico, 
177. 

Mechanical  piano  dance  music,  a 
substitute  for  Waldteufel,  187; 
Madame  takes  a  turn,  188. 

Melody,  tears,  and  a  "  speech  "  in 
Rochester's  "  pen,"  66. 

M^rimee,  Prosper,  "  entrancing," 
193;  his  long  love  affair,  194. 

Metternich,  Prince,  Austrian  am- 
bassador to  Franf-e,  31 :  describes 
Rossini's  home  life,  57;  enter- 
tains Madame  at  Johannisberg, 
371;  dedicates  a  volume,  A 
Vlnspiratice,  379. 

Metternich,  Princess,  leader  in  so- 
ciety and  fashion,  34;  her  enor- 
mous cigars,  54;  one  of  her  fa- 
mous dances,  166;  her  home  at 
Johannisberg,  377. 

Moulton,  Charles,  engaged  to 
marry,  16;  his  family  and 
musical  talents,  17;  author  of 
"Beware!"  238;  his  illness  and 
sudden  death,  339,  340. 

Musard,  Madame,  and  her  petro- 
leum stock,  37. 

Napoleon  III.,  Emperor,  intro- 
duced to  Madame  on  the  ice 
by  Prince  Murat,  21;  skates 
with  Madame,  22;  invites  Ma- 
dame  to  sing  at  the  Tuileries, 


30:  the  domino  his  favorite  dis- 
guise, 35 ;  dances  the  Virginia 
reel,  136:  places  Madame  next 
to  him  at  dinner,  145;  a  dis- 
torted joke,  195;  takes  command 
of  the  army,  252;  his  death, 
369. 

New  York  mansion  of  the  late 
fifties,  8. 

Nilsson  in  "  Traviata,"  73;  her 
famous  appetite,  75. 

Offenbach,  Jacques,  composer, 
writes  the  music  for  a  play  by 
the  Duke  de  Momy,  36. 

Old  family  origins,  203. 

Patti,  reminiscences  of,  239. 

Petit  Val,  the  Moultons'  country 
seat,  17;  its  princely  neighbors 
and  guests,  18:  Napoleon  builds 
a  bridge  for,  32 ;  the  nightingale 
in  the  cedar,  40;  in  the  path  of 
the  German  army,  262:  Madame 
views  ruin  all  around,  263;  din- 
ing with  the  invaders,  269;  con- 
quering with  song,  270;  rescued 
by  the  American  Minister 
Washburn,  274. 

Picnic  at  Grand  Trianon,  232. 

Pierrefonds,  ancient  chateau,  ex- 
cursion to,  108;  restored  by 
Architect  Viollet-le-Duc,  109; 
second  visit  to,  208. 

Prince  Imperial  as  "Pan,"  214; 
leaves  for  the  war  with  the  Em- 
peror, 252 ;  "  le  bapt§me  du 
feu,"  276. 

Prince  Oscar's  tributes  of  punch, 
bracelets,  and  poetry,  155,  157; 
duet  with,  158;  visits  Delsarte, 
171. 

Rigault,  Raoul,  Communard  pre- 
fect of  Paris,  insults  Madame, 
295;  decrees  many  arrests,  330; 
gives  orders  for  the  massacre 
of  forty  hostages,   332. 

Roman  days  with  the  Haseltines, 
422;  Sculptor  Story  and  his 
family,  423,  427;  an  Italian 
"Mrs.  Malaprop,"  424;  audience 
with    the    Pope,    425;    visit    to 


449 


IN    THE    COURTS    OF    MEMORY 


Garibaldi,  429;  an  accident,  a 
dream,  and  a  lottery  ticket,  431 ; 
presented  to  the  royal  family, 
435;  a  typical  nobleman,  436; 
President  Polk's  widow  enter- 
tains, 438;  Madame  a  puest  at 
the  {^uirinal,  43!);  Tosti  as  ac- 
companist, 438,  430. 

Rossini,  Gioachino,  bis  home  and 
bis  wigs,  57;  highly  praises 
Madame's  voice,  58;  severely 
criticizes  Wagner  but  praises 
"  Tannbiiuser,"  60 ;  approves  of 
Gounod,  70. 

Rothschild,  Baroness  Alphonse, 
gives  a  concert  with  no  one  to 
bear  it  but  herself  and  Madame, 
46. 

Hue  de  Courcelles  and  the  Moul- 
ton  Hotel  during  the  siege,  255; 
P^re  Moulton's  prevision,  256; 
farming  and  dairying  in  the 
conservatory,  256;  visited  by 
Courbet,  the  Communard  artist, 
284;  Auber  tells  of  the  sat- 
urnalia, 288;  M^re  Moulton 
leaves  for  Dinard,  295;  a  notable 
dinner  party  has  peas  from 
Petit  Val,  304;  Massenet  and 
Auber  at  the  piano,  309;  whist 
under  difficulties,  312;  shut  in, 
318;  despoiled  of  horse,  but  the 
cow  is  saved,  320;  under  fire, 
324;  succoring  a  wounded  fugi- 
tive, 327;  refuge  at  Dinard,  335. 

School-days  at  Cambridge  under 
Professor  Agassiz,  1 ;  character 
sketches  of  the  tutors,  the  best 
in  Harvard.  2. 

Skating  on  the  lake  at  Suresnes 
with  baby  Nina,  21;  meets  and 
teaches  Napoleon  and  Eugenie, 
22;   in  the  Bois,  30. 

Strauss,  at  the  Metternich  ball, 
conducts  "  The  Blue  Danube " 
waltz,  166. 


Sullivan's  "Prodigal  Son,"  241. 

TiiEATEB  at  Compiegne,  125. 
Three    famous    artists    amu.se    the 

invalid,  76. 
"Three  Little  Kittens,"  9. 
Tips  a  burden  at  Compi^gne,   151, 

153;    Pere   Moulton   objects   and 

they  are  abolished,  185. 

ViRoiMA  rod  with  the  Emperor, 
136;  Madame  de  Persignv  gets 
a  fall,  137. 

Waoxer,  Richard,  severe  and 
iritical,  54,  56. 

VValdteufel,  waltz-master,  at  the 
piano,   106.   113. 

War  clouds  rising,  248;  a  distress- 
ing dinner,  249;  war  declared, 
251 ;  false  news  of  victories, 
252. 

War  play  and  a  Virginia  reel  with 
the  Emperor,  133. 

War  scenes  in  Paris  and  its  en- 
virons, 254,  274;  the  Commune 
proclaimed,  277;  murder  of  the 
peacemakers,  279;  shooting  of 
Generals  Thomas  and  Lecomte, 
288;  Madame  ministers  in  the 
hospitals,  289;  two  pathetic  Ger- 
man patients,  291,  293;  an 
American  victim,  296;  through 
the  mob  to  Worth's  atelier.  281 ; 
bearding  the  Communard  prefect 
Rigault,  295;  seizure  of  the 
Moulton  carriage,  305;  fall  of 
the  Column  VendAme,  .329; 
slaughter  of  the  hostages,  3.32; 
MacMahon  captures  the  city, 
334. 

Washburn,  American  minister, 
274;  "only  a  post-office,"  277; 
in  the  Assembly,  283;  getting 
passports,  295. 

Worth's  atelier  during  the  Com- 
mune, 280. 


THE   END 


liT 


Hegermann-Lindencrone,  ihru; 

Li  Hie    (Greenougn) 
In^the   courts   of   raernory, 
.1853-1375, 


l/lH  ?P"^^^^'J  RFGiriNAI  I  IRRflRY  FAriLITY 


AA     001339  428       3 


PaulOderfrCb 


San  Francisco 


3  1210  00432  6482 


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